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A TALE. 



By Mrs. HOFLAND. 

Af, 


AUTttOH OF TALES OP THE PRIORY, TALES OP THE 
MANOR, AND A SON OP A GENIUS., &0. &C, 


Till I die, I will not remove mine integrity from 
me, — my heart shall not reproach 


PHILADELPHIA.: 

PUBLISHED BY THOMAS T. ASm 


No. 1"9, Chesmit-stiie'f'^. 

1828 . 






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CHAPTER I. 

‘‘What could you have been saying, my 
dear mamma, to Frederic Tracy last night? 
the tears were in his eyes, yet he looked hap- 
py, and even proud when I entered, but as 
Mrs. Greville came in with me, I could not 
inquire the cause.” 

Such was the question of Emily Shel- 
burne, then a girl in her fourteenth year, to 
her widowed mother, who immediately repli- 
ed, 

I had been speaking of your father, my 
love, — had been relating a material circum 
stance in his early life, which awakened the 
glow of kindred feeling in the warm heart of 
Frederic, and occasioned the expression of 
countenance which struck you.” 

“You often talk to Frederic about my 
papa,” said Emily, with an air of pensive 
thoughtfulness, which almost amounted to re- 
proach, and betrayed a little jealousy of her 
mother’s favourite. 

“ I c?o, my dear, — for in depicting your 
dear father’s character, I consider myself 

A 2 




giving the best lesson, (the lesson of exaiu^ 
^le,) to an orphan singularly situated, and af- 
fotding indications not only of the purest 
Sensibility, but the most generous and lofty 
integrity: as it is delightful to me to develop 
a mind so ingenious, so it appears a duty I 
owe him in return, to cherish the virtues, 
and strengthen the principles I approve. — I 
can talk to him with more ease than I can to 
you; on a subject so near my heart, for the 
sight of you, my child, recals so forcibly — ’’ 

Mrs. Shelburne suddenly stopped, and 
Emily as suddenly comprehended all her 
mother felt, but could not say; ashamed of 
the sensation she, had rather conceived 
than expressed, she threw herself into * her 
mother’s arms, assured her that she was fully 
aware of the acuteness, of her feelings on 
a point so touching, ana proposed changing 
the current of their thoughts by reading. 

“Oh no, my love,” replied Mrs. Shel- 
burne, rallying her spirits; “it is to me a 
sweet employment to speak of your father, 
although when I address myself to you I too 
frequently suflfer the subject to move me too 
much;- we must both learn to conquer our 
feeling, Emily, even on this point. Now 
for my anecdote, which it is perfectly right 
you should learn, as it is in fact a portion of 
family history. 

“Your father’s uncle, Mr. Robert Shel- 
burne, never married; he improved his pa- 
ternal fortune much by a concern in the cop- 


I^VTEGRITY. 


'6 


per mines, which enabled him to purchase an 
estate in Dorsetshire, where he resided with 
an unmarried sister. Mr. Shelburne, when a 
school boy, passed his holydays at their 
house, and was considered by all the rela- 
tions of the family as the future l^eir. When 
he became about fifteen, he took with him, on 
these occasions, a half-brother, who was a 
sickly child, and who, having lost both his 
parents, needed the motherly offices and 
pure air likely to be met with in his uncle’s 
house. The child was first tolerated, then 
liked, and eventually became a permanent 
resident, as Mrs. Judith observed, “that 
puny children were at least quiet, and as 
her brother was often ailing, she might as 
well nurse two as one:” unhappily, her good 
nursing confirmed the delicacy which would 
otherwise have been temporary. 

“ Francis, (your beloved father,) was sent 
for by express to his uncle, who was said to 
be extremely ill, when in his twenty-first 
year. He entered the bed-room of a relative 
he loved tenderly, at a moment when it pre- 
sented a spectacle most afflictive and appal- 
iiig to a heart like his. The dying invalid was 
raised in his bed, his sister had placed a pen 
in his nerveless hand, with which she eager- 
ly besought him to sign his will, which was 
placed on the bed before him. An attorney 
and his clerk stood on one side to witness this 
act, and on the other appeared the clergy- 
man of the village, who was protesting 


4 


INTEGRITY. 


against the validity of the deed, and observ- 
ing, that as it appeared the will had been 
made above a year, yet never signed, the 
testator had his own reasons for his delay.” 

The expiring man was either unequal to 
the exertion urged upon him, or accorded 
with the opinion expressed, — he hesitated, — 
his long-loved, first-loved nephew entered 
the room, on whom he cast his eyes with an 
eager but indefinite expression, sunk back, 
and expired. 

Even in this awful moment, your great- 
aunt loudly lamented, “that her dear Wil- 
liam was wronged, for that the will was whol- 
ly in his favour;” and the minister rejoiced, 
“ that even death had prevented his old 
friend from an act, which he was well aware 
had been unfairly urged upon him.” The at- 
torney endeavoured to explain the law in 
such cases, and how far it was binding; but 
your father quelled a disturbance which 
shocked him, by a solemn assurance, “that in 
his eyes the will of his uncle was sacred, and 
so far as he was concerned, should be fulfill- 
ed to the letter.” 

When he ceased to be a minor, this pro- 
mise was carried into eftect; a trifling legacy 
was all that came to him; the estate was giv- 
en to William, the personality to Mrs. Ju- 
dith, who was also guardian to the heir, and 
continued her power to the last day of her 
existence, when she bequeathed all to the 
nephew she had enriched and controlled.. 


\N‘TEGKIT\. 


•5 


Poor papai^ — rather noble! generous! ex- 
cellent papal” exclaimed Emily. 

“Very true,” my love; “ his conduct was 
all that, and as he was then a young and dis- 
engaged man, he had a right to be generous, 
but, under other circumstances, an act of sim- 
ple integrity would have been better.” 

“Surely, dear mother, this was an act of 
pure integrity? of a lofty sense of rectitude?” 

“It was so, my dear, in Aim, undoubtedly, 
at the time; but yet, when it appeared by in- 
numerable testimonies from the clergyman 
and the servants, that "his uncle had been 
teased into the making of a testament which 
he yet kept unsigned, as if he could not in 
conscience execute it, there certainly was an 
equal reason for believing that he fulfilled the 
will of his uncle in taking care of himself, as 
in giving all to his brother; and, in my opi- 
nion, common honesty and common sense 
would have dictated a division of the pro - 
perty; but in early life we never compro- 
mise. I, therefore, am not in the least sur- 
prised that your father, in the nobleness of 
his nature, and the strictness of his princi- 
ples, gave all in the manner he did.” 

“But surely his brother offered to divider” 

“ Never! — so far from that, when your fa- 
ther, (who, as a merchant, suffered immense 
losses from political changes,) applied to him 
for aid, he replied, ‘‘ that he could not think 
of advancing money for risk in these terrible 
but that if his brother would give over 


6 


INTEGRITY, 


business, he would willingly allow him an 
annuity if it should be found necessary: and 
he added, that — — ” 

What could he add?” 

That since we had happily— lost 
our little boys, — and my dowry was suffi- 
cient for a girl, very little would enable us 
to live.” 

Oh! what a wretch! a wicked, wicked 
man ! to say my little brothers were happily 
removed.” 

“ It affected me then, as you feel it now, 
and rendered your father so indignant, as to 
check all further intercourse; but I can at 
this time make allowance for the cold tem- 
perament of a man, whose very words were 
dictated by one who had gained an ascendan- 
cy over him by every claim of gratitude. 
“ He spoke to me who never had a child;” 
and as a stranger to the strongest tie of exis- 
tence, set lightly by it. From all I can learn, 
he is rather a weak man than a bad one; the 
energies of his mind partaking the fragile 
constitution of the mother, whom he lost in 
the first stage of infancy,” and whose mala- 
dies he inherits.” 

‘‘Well,” said Emily, after a long drawn 
sigh, “ I will try to forgive him ; but I don’t 
like him, and I am very glad dear papa could 
do well without him.” 

“Had he lived, he would have done very 
well; but as it is. we have nothing to regret 
save his lo.ss. He lived tp repair, though not 


IXTKGKITY. 


tx) retlieve his fortune, and to establish a 
character of the highest integrity with num- 
bers who never heard of this early sacrifice^ 
in fact, it is so long past, and we have had 
so little intercourse with the parties concern- 
ed in it, that, in one sense, I had forgotten 
it myself, till the affairs of Frederic Tracy 
recalled it to remembrance.” 


CHAPTER II. 

Mas. Shelburne resided at this time at a 

village near the town of D , to which, 

on the death of her deeply -lamented husband, 
she was attracted, partly because it offered 
extraordinary facilities for the education of 
her daughter, combined with the retirement 
she courted, and partly because it was with- 
in an easy distance of an elder and much be- 
loved sister, the only survivor of a once nu- 
merous family. 

The husband of this sister, (Mr. Hastings,) 
was the sole guardian of Emily ^ he was a 
merchant in a very extensive line of business, 
a man much known, and generally respected, 
though not generally liked; for his religious 
sentiments were those of a rigid sectarian, 
his manners cold and diffident, and the 
fears which he ever appeared to feel, were 


a 


1 JiGrKH V . 


contagious 10 those around hiuu Jb’evv ap- 
proached him with ease, save those who, as 
his spiritual directors, felt their own superi- 
ority^, or those who intreated the charity 
which they well knew he would accord them 
on the principle of duty; for although he was 
naturally a man of much feeling, yet with 
him it was a principle to seem as if devoid 
of any, and ever actuated by higher motives. 

Professing in every minutiae the same 
faith, and adding to her creed the most im- 
plicit obedience to the will of her wedded 
lord, as a religious duty, yet no person could 
offer a greater contrast in temper and man- 
ners to him than his wife. A tender heart, 
vivid and romantic imagination, the inno- 
cent simplicity of a mind which had never 
been informed or corrupted by commerce 
with the world,, rendered Mrs. Hastings 
the most pure and happy of all mystics, the 
most amiable and interesting of women. She 
lived in a world of her own, moved in an at- 
mosphere of her own creation, and so reduc- 
ed the most repellant natures to a partial 
submission to her ameliorating influence, 
that all around, as well as all within her, 
seemed attuned to love. Living entirely in 
the country, circumscribed in her acquaint 
ance, and divided many hours in the day 
from her husband, her time was everoccupi 
ed, either by the labours of benevolence, or 
the abstractions of sublime meditations, 
which the natural cheerfulness of her dispo- 


l>iTliGRri i. 


y 


sitiou, and the svveetnes of her temper, aided 
by the richness of her fancy, rendered the 
source of edification and amusement to all 
who afterwards had the pleasure of her con - 
versatien: glowing with enthusiasm, and rapt 
in devotion, her soul appeared as if it had 
visited its native paradise, and brought from 
thence a foretaste of its heirship to immortal- 
ity. 

Nor were the excellencies of Mrs. Hastings 
those only which belong to a contemplative 
mind, — she had suffered many trials in her 
family, from the sickness and death of her 
younger children, especially in the loss of the 
only daughter she had been blessed with, and 
she was even now the unceasing nurse, and 
patient attendant of two extremely aged rela- 
tives, to whom she dedicated hours that, 
would have wearied out the patience of any 
one not influenced by divine forbearance^ 
and as the mother of three sons now enter- 
ing on manhood, and by no means agreeing 
with the opinions and wishes of their father, 
it will readily be conceived that her trials 
were not merely nominal. Every day and 
every hour, the meekness and the loftiness 
of those holy principles which ruled her spir- 
it were called into action, and they ever an- 
swered to the call. 

As no sisters could love each other with 
more decided tenderness, nor with more un- 
broken confidence than these sisters had 
ever done, it was thought singular by som<. 


10 


INTEGRITY. 


of their friends, that Mrs. Shelburne did not 
fix her residence in the positive neighbour- 
hood of Mrs. Hastings, and the more seri- 
ous roundly censured the widow for not plac- 
ing herself and child beneath the protection 
which circumstances thus offered. This sit- 
uation had not escaped Mrs. Shelburne’s con- 
sideration; but as her view of a Christian’s 
duties did not exactly accord with that of 
Mr. Hastings, and as she foresaw ^clearly, 
that the time was advancing, when, in des- 
pite of the mollifying influence of her sister, 
the “house would be divided against itself,” 
and that her nephews would claim a constant 
asylum in her house, it would be embarrass- 
ing to grant, and painful to refuse, she thought 
it the part of wisdom and true friendship, 
to fix herself in a situation which left her the 
means of enjoying at intervals the society of 
her sister in unalloyed comfort, and obtain- 
ing the aid of Mr. Hastings in the manage- 
ment of her concerns, without subjecting 
her to the severity of his remarks on the 
one hand, or inducing her to submit to his 
control on the other, in cases which she 
deemed herself adequate to decide upon, as 
one that must answer to a higher Judge. 

But for the dear child, in whom all her 
earthly cares were centered, Mrs. Shelburne 
would have been happy to have purchased, 
by some concession, the pleasure of more fre- 
quent intercourse with her sister,' and such 
of her visitants as were calculated to enliven 


RSfrEGUlTY. 


a 


the loneliness of one whose heart was be - 
reaved, and whose dwelling was desolate. 
She could not bear to deprive a child, (whose 
acute sensibility had subjected her thus early 
in life to severe sorrow,) of those innocent 
gratifications and accomplishments which she 
considered suitable to her situation in socie- 
ty, and to the season of life which was ad- 
vancing upon her; and she still more dread- 
ed the evil of rendering religion itself unin- 
viting and repellant, in the persons and 
manners of relatives whom she sincerely de- 
sired her to love and esteem; an effect cer- , 
tainly not to be dreaded in the person of her 
gentle aunt, but almost inevitable in that of 
her uncle, and the society in which she moved. 

As time advanced, Mrs. Shelburne became 
satisfied with the wisdom of her decision. 
One after another, the sons of Mr. Hastings 
left school, and became inmates of the pater- 
nal home, and sharers of his mercantile 
labours. The two eldest entered on this 
new situation within a short time of each 
other; for the eldest was so dull and distrait, 
that the mother urged the necessity of pro- 
curing him a companion. Alas ! that com- 
panion added little to his pleasures; both 
were restless, uneasy, — alternately irritable 
and melancholy, — full of regret for pleasures 
they had lost, and of disgust for the world on 
which they were entering. They alike found 
themselves in a situation they were not pre- 
pared to fill; being educated for their real 


INTEGKITf. 


situation in life, and now called upon it) 
associate with those whose views were so 
narrow, whose knowledge was so confined, 
as to render them contemptible in their eyes, 
— which were, of course, blinded to that 
which might be excellent in them; for youth 
seldom discriminates — it loves or hates. 

The mother sought to direct their views 
to the same source of happiness which shed 
perpetual serenity, and inspired universal 
amenity in her own bosom: but her sons 
were young men, whose views were full of 
the turmoil, the energies, the busy hopes and 
wishes of early life; untamed by reflection, 
unsubdued by sorrow, and alive to that search 
for amusement, which at that season is a po- 
sitive demand of nature, from the kitten on 
the hearth, and the lamb in the meadow, to 
man, in the fullest exercise of intellect,-— 
which may refine and guide, but does not 
therefore subdue his desire of pleasure. De- 
nied by their father the means of entertain- 
ment common to their age, yet not abridged 
in their expenses, the young men endeavour- 
ed, by fashionable dress, fine horses, and 
other showy appendages, to make themselves 
amends for restrictions to which their love 
for their mother induced them to submit re- 
piningly; but, by degrees, each were led to 
other resources, for the natural flow of ani- 
mal spirits and undirected ambition. The 
eldest, James, became a close attendant and 
a bold speculator in his father’s affairs, who. 


I*VTEGRITY. 


13 


a keen tradesman, was rejoiced to observe 
him take this turn. — The second, who was 
a sociable, lively creature, much resembling 
his mother, but far inferior to her in mind, 
addicted himself to low company, was con- 
tent to be the oracle of the neighbouring cot- 
tages, ran olF with his mother’s maid, and af- 
terwards compelled his father to consent to 
his marriage with her, lest he should be 
deemed an accessary to a guilty connection, 

Mr. Hastings loved his children, — they 
were all fine young men in person, by no 
means deficient in talent, and it was certain 
that he had not only a father’s pride in them, 
but an earnest desire to see them in the first 
society, and forming the first connections 
in the country, — the conduct of Frank was, 
therefore, a bitter mortification to him, — and 
although he would not own that a little more 
consideration for the wishes of his sons would 
have been adviseable in him, he yet was im- 
pressed with that belief; and when Tom, his 
youngest and his darling came home, he was 
treated with an amplitude of indulgence in 
some points, which would have been ruinous 
to a much wiser head. 

The mind of Mrs. Shelburne was much 
engaged in sympathy with her sister on all 
the points connected with her family, not 
only from the strong affection she bore her, 
but from the painful necessity she felt, of 
considering the house of Mr. Hastings as 
the future home of her fatherless child. \ 
u « 


14 


INTEGaiTY. 


slow disease had been long undermining her 
health, and she was well aware, that the pow- 
er of medicine, though it might delay the 
stroke, could not protract her existence till 
the period when Emily’s minority would 
cease; or if even she should live till then, 
could she see how a young and unconnected 
woman could find any home equally suitable 
with that offered by the house of her guardian, 
and of an aunt, who had ever loved her with 
a tenderness scarcely inferior to her own. 

But in that house were young men — whom 
Emily was likely to attract, and whose wishes 
would not fail to be seconded by their pa- 
rents:— her sister was indeed too upright, 
as well as too amiable, to join in any plan of 
persecution, even for the sake of her own 
children; but, then, she was so entirely an 
obedient, a subservient wife, to a cold-heart- 
ed, lordly husband, that whatever he com- 
manded she would certainly fulfil; and the 
happiness of Emily must be either sacrificed 
by compliance, or her life embittered by 
contention, for which nature had not quali- 
fied her, but to which even her principles 
might compel her. The heart of the mother 
ached at the sad prospect before her. 

As these were subjects on which she could 
not converse, and which never failed to im- 
press her countenance with sorrow, she found 
that of her anxious child imbibed, (from its 
expression,) much of the same sorrowful me- 
ditation which affected her mother’s mind. 


INTEGKlTy. ij 

She became pale and spiritless, ever attentive 
to the pensive looks and delicate health ot 
her mother, but incapable of any other ex- 
ertion, and evidently sinking into that state 
of morbid sensibility, which it had ever 
been the great object of maternal solicitude 
to prevent. 

Mrs. Shelburne, ever alive to the calls of 
duty, and utterly incapable of selfish consi- 
deration, aroused herself, threw off’ all thought 
save of that which was necessary, and assur- 
ing Emily “that she was much better,” pro- 
posed to place her for a year or two at a 
boarding school, where, in the society of girls 
like herself, she could pursue the occupations 
and accomplishments proper for her age, and 
would, at the same time, be so near her, that 
they would have the advantage of constant 
intercourse. 

The plan succeeded, — the puny blossom, 
relieved from the sombre air which had op- 
pressed it, recovered, or rather attained the 
sprightliness of youth, and the full play with 
which early enjoyments bound on the heart 
that is new to life, and give a charm to the 
most simple pleasures and occupations. It 
was during this period that Mrs. Shelburne 
formed an acquaintance with the youth to 
whom we have adverted. 

Of the six boys who sat in the rector’s pew 
on the Sunday, and w'ere the objects of his 
week-day care, Frederic Tracy was perhaps 
the leaat likely, at this time, to attract a 


lij 


INTEGEITY. 


stranger’s eye; for he was not well grown 
for his age, was remarkably thin and pale, and 
had a look of thoughtfulness beyond his 
years, and, therefore, not becoming them. 
The very circumstance gave him interest in 
the sight of Mrs. Shelburne, because it re- 
minded her of the late situation of her own 
family, and rendered her deeply desirous of 
restoring the poor boy to the same happy 
flow of health and spirits which now charac- 
terised her daughter. 

Mrs. Shelburne’s benevolence was not of a 
sleepy nature, and that degree of languor 
whicli was produced by her weakness was 
so far from being acted upon as an excuse 
for delay by her, that even formed a reason 
why she should lose no time. “I must do 
my Master’s work while it is day, for niy 
night cometh,” was often in her mind, and it 
produced in her an activity of charitable ex- 
ertion and good neighbourhood, rarely equal- 
led by the strong and healthy. Her slight 
acquaintance with the clergyman soon led to 
an intimate one with his pupilj and when 
she saw the long eye-lashes that were wont 
to be cast over his dark eyes withdrawn, 
and, the full intelligent orb lighting up his 
features with pleasure, as he glanced over 
the books, music, and drawings, in her apart- 
ment, she felt certain that she had not been 
mistaken in believing that his sickness, (if 
he were sick,) was that of the heart only. 

Frederic Tracy, at fifteen, had, with all 


JOTEXJHITY. 


17 


xhe innoceijice and simplicity of boyhood, a 
prematurity of mind which is the sad ^ift of 
early sorrow. He was the only child of his pa- 
rents, both of whom were of good[ family, but 
small fortune; but his father, as a merchant 
well connected, and of excellent character, 
maintained a very respectable situation in 
society, and as a husband and father, was 
almost unrivalled in the tenderness and de- 
votedness of his affections. 

Mrs. Tracy was always delicate in her 
health, and when Frederic was about six 
years old, fell into a pulmonary complaint, 
for which the air of a milder climate was im- 
peratively prescribed. At that time the po- 
litical changes which convulsed all Europe, 
placed the mercantile interest every where 
in great jeopardy, and the presence of Mr. 
Tracy was required in Stockholm, as the 
guardian of his property consigned to that 
city: but the health and comfort of his wife 
overbalanced every other consideration, and 
he set out with her to Madeira, accompanied 
by the child, who had never left her a day 
from its birth. 

Frederic could, therefore, well remember 
the bright glances of eyes that gazed at hinv. 
through tears of tenderness, and the alternate 
roses, and the marble paleness of that be- 
loved mother, who imprinted on his mind 
its first ideas of beauty, and its sense of un- 
ceasing and unchanging love, — he could re- 
member, too. the disf.rartion of his father. 


18 


IIjiTEi^RXTY, 


when that sweet mouth spake no longer, and 
even his own sense of indignation, as well 
as sorrow, when that indolised mother was 
laid in an unhallowed grave, and the Span- 
ish maid presumed to say, “she was not an 
angel.” 

Sir. Tracy returned to exchange the sor- 
rows of a tender heart for the mortifications 
of a wounded spirit: — his property in Stock- 
holm was lost, the agent he had dispatched 
there, secured, and then eloped with it; and 
during the period of his absence, had set- 
tled in Petersburgh. Thither the mourner 
pursued him, but too late for the recovery of 
his rights; he returned, deeply injured in 
his health, and ruined in his affairs, to pur- 
sue the only means which rectitude left — 
that of dividing the remainder of his fortune 
in just proportions among his creditors, and 
seeking the means of life for himself and 
child by personal exertion. 

The uprightness of his conduct gained him 
friends, even in those who suffered the most 
from his misfortunes; and with that liberali- 
ty which ever marks the citizens of the me- 
tropolis, a situation worthy his acceptance, 
ami suitable for his health, was provided for 
him, and whilst engaged in it, he placed his 
son in the respectable and happy asylum 
where he still resided: but within a year 
after that time, another eventful change took 
place in his destiny. 

By the death of his mat#*rnal uncle, a verv 


USiliilOKlI V. 


19 


considerable property in the West Indies be- 
came his, the extensive estates being equally 
divided between himself and his brother. 
This brother was an attorney, and at the 
time of his failure, had taken care that he 
should be made a bankrupt in all due form, 
in order, (as he said,) to save all future liti™ 
gation; but the first exclamation of the brok- 
en merchant, on hearing of his accession of 
fortune, was this, — “Now will I pay all my 
creditors to the last farthing. ” 

It was neccessary that one of the brothers- 
should set out immediately, and as the at- 
torney was a married man, Frederic was evi- 
dently the most proper: — he sent for his 
child, to bid him farewell, for he was so satis- 
fied with his situation, that he would not in- 
dulge himself with taking him so long a voy- 
age. —Poor child!*— he then thought his fath- 
er looked very ill, — in truth, sorrow had so 
shattered him, that hope and fortune arrived 
too late to restore him;— he was ill during 
the voyage, and immediately on landing, he 
was seized with a fever, and sunk its prey 
in a few hours, being only able to dictate a 
hasty will, putting his son under the guar- 
dianship of his brother. 

On the arrival of this distressing intelligence 
the . elder Tracy suddenly wound up his affairs 
in England, and taking his own children with 
him, immediately set out to take possession 
and cognisance of the weighty affars thus 
committed wholly to his care. In leaving the 


20 




afflicted son of his deceased brother to tlie 
care of the good tutor with whom he had so 
long resided, he pursued the best, as well 
as the kindest conduct; for the poor boy’s 
personal acquaintance with his uncle’s fami- 
ly was slight, and his sorrows flowed more 
freely with those to whom he was habituated. 

As this bereaved child rose from infancy, a 
tone of pensive thought, blended with an ea- 
ger pursuit of knowledge, and uncommon 
talents and perseverance for the search; and 
whilst he appeared to those arouiid him mere- 
ly a studious boy, he was occupied with that 
memory of the heart which is rarely found 
in the happy forgetfulness of youth, and also 
with those aspirations after lofty ennobling, 
and endearing virtues, which arose from 
classic conception, and the treasured pre- 
cepts of his tender devotion to his parents. 
Though living with those who were good and 
affectionate, yet they were too busy to pur- 
sue the timid melancholy, and retiring enthu- 
siasm of his mind to its hiding places; and 
but for the generous interest conceived for 
him by Mrs. Shelburne, he might have brood- 
ed over past sorrows, and future prospects, 
till its strength w^as withered, and its best 
designs evaporated in unrealised imaginings. 

Frederic could not throw his whole heart 
open to his estimable friend, for he had “com- 
muned so long with himself only,” on points 
connected with personal situation, that his 
modesty forbade it; but on his literary pur* 


lN.i*liCrRri V. 


'21 

suits he soon became enabled to converse 
with ease, and with elegance and fluency 
formed by that silent society so long his dear 
est companions. But it was in moments 
like those we have recorded, when Mrs. 
Shelburne spoke to him with the frankness 
of a friend and the tenderness of a mother, 
that his sensibility was most excited; and 
the eagerness with which he listened to any 
anecdote, which bespoke the decided virtues 
of justice, generosity, or self-control, the 
sparkling of his eye, the throbbing of his 
heart, the efforts he would make to speak, 
and the blush which overspread his counte- 
nance, not only proved a general but indivi- 
dual interest in the subject. 

When Emily, at the first or second vaca- 
tion found Frederic so constant a visitant at 
her mother’s, she betrayed a little jealousy. 
This was followed by somewhat of mauvaise 
honte when, on her returning, she fancied 
him grown almost a man; but as at this time 
her mother was evidently unusually delicate, 
every remembrance wore off except the im- 
pression that he sympathised in her feelings 
— that he loved her mother, and would d^o 
any thing to console or relieve her; a conclu- 
sion in which she reasoned beloio the truth; 
for there was a flame of gratitude and affec- 
tion towards this maternal friend, which in 
the heart of the poor orphan could have ena- 
bled him for her sake to have achieved prodi- 
^^ies and endured martyrdom- 


INTEGRITY. 


To console the tedium of languor, and di- 
vert the pains, which, although often felt, 
were never mentioned, became, by degrees, 
the sole concern, as well as the most inter- 
esting care, of these young creatures. Emi- 
ly was led to make Frederic her confidante, 
by entreating him to persuade her mother 
not to send her again to school, as she could 
know no comfort if she were divided from a 
mother so beloved and in a such a suffering 
state. This request unlocked Frederic’s 
heart, with all its treasured plans and wishes. 
He spoke of his long buried parents, his far 
distant relatives, the sense of his own isolat- 
ed situation, and, above all, the eager pant- 
ings of his heart to fulfil what he thought 
was the wishes of his father, on leaving his 
native land, but which at all events, he felt 
ought to be done, — the payments of his cred- 
itors to the utmost of their demands. 

Frederic lamented, that in the later let- 
ters, in which he had hinted at his desire of 
thus fulfilling the demands of justice, his 
wishes had by no means dieted the appro- 
bation the ardent hopes of youth desire. His 
uncle’s letters, ever short, though kind, and 
containing liberal remittances, no further 
noticed the reference made to his own future 
expectations, than to inform him “that the 
crops had of late been but indifferent; that 
West India property was more subject to 
change and loss than any other, and that it 
was ever desirable that young men should 


iilTEOSITV. 


S3 

neither allow themselves to indulge great ex- 
pectations nor romantic projects.” 

But when Frederic conversed on these 
subjects with his valued friend, and still 
more with her lovely daughter, the more did 
he feel resolved to pursue this project, even 
if, by his own personal exertion, he should 
be called to eke out his fortune for a purpose, 
which, according to his estimation of things, 
was necessary to discharge the obligations of 
his conscience, the injunctions of his reli- 
gion, and to free his father’s name from a re- 
proach it had never in fact incurred. We will 
not say but in long musings and lonely ram- 
bles he had conceived that the spirit of his 
beloved parent urged him to fulfil this holy 
desire; for Frederic certainly united with the 
solid qualities of a comprehensive mind the 
fervid imagination and poetic conception 
which are born of a lofty spirit and a tender 
heart. 

The ice once broken, every impression his 
mind had nurtured poured itself freely into 
the “ greedy ear” of Emily, who in her turn 
spoke of them to her mother, at such times as 
she could bear to hear them best, and give 
that counsel or opinion called for. Emily 
obtained her desire of remaining to attend a 
mother who was thankful for the blessing her 
society bestowed, and who trusted that she 
had now obtained the fortitude so necessary 
for the trials which awaited her. 


'24 


integrity. 


CHAPTER III. 

Time passed; — the invalid still lingered, 
enjoying at times a respite which surprised 
her older friends, and inspired her younger 
ones with those hopes which spring readily 
in the soil of early troubles. But Mrs. Shel- 
burne was herself fully aware of the termina- 
tion which would take place; and with that 
calm fortitude which atfects no power, yet 
evinces much; — that constant resignation 
which is the best proof, and, in fact, the high- 
est exercise of faith; she waited patiently 
for the change in her own state, but contin- 
ued to the last active in her anxiety to bene- 
fit her child, and indeed all within her circle, 
but especially Frederic, who might be term- 
ed now the son of her adoption. 

It was indeed evident to her, even before 
he suspected it himself, that a new and more 
lively preference drew Frederic to her house 
now, and that the brotherly affection with 
which he had formerly regarded Emily, had 
warmed into a more ardent, but equally stea- 
dy, attachment. She had expected this, and 
it was consolatory to her to find it; for al- 
though there was much in such an engage- 
ment to call for solicitude, and evidently ei- 
ther great imprudence in an early marriage, 
or great suffering from a painful absence to 
enrounter. vet even these evils were far less 


INTEGRiTV. 


in her own eyes than those which, in her own 
opinion, threatened her daughter, if she en- 
/tered the family of her uncle under circum- 
stances which might invite, or at least per- 
mit, the addresses of her cousins, to any one 
of whom she would have been unable to com- 
mit the happiness of her child. 

Tom, the youngest of these, was but a few 
months older than Emily, and had ever been 
her favourite: he was a fine lively lad, ever 
eager to escape from the dense atmosphere of 
his own home to the purer air which, even 
in the pressure of sickness, was found in the 
dwelling of his cheerful aunt. As she grew 
\Yorse, and her sister became more anxious, 
Tom came more frequently; and as a rela- 
tion he could come oftener and stay longer 
than Frederic, (whom an intuitive sense of 
propriety, a delicacy of the heart beyond all 
rule, had made even in his earliest visitings a 
timid though a happy guest;) it appeared to 
him that this cousin, this handsome, dash- 
ing cousin, who rode the finest horse in the 
country, followed by two of the finest grey- 
hounds, was there perpetually, and he could 
not help wishing him any where else. 

Frederic was at this period pursuing his 
studies as a young man who might either be 
sent to the University, or suddenly called to 
the West Indies; for his uncle had been so 
unfortunate in losing one after another, all 
his own children, (save one daughter, (that he 


INTEGRITY, 


professed himself incapable of deciding what 
line of life he should venture upon for him^ 
at the same time he expressed a desire to see 
and know him, which augured well for their 
future and more intimate intercourse. Fer- 
vently had Frederic desired the day when 
he might be called away, for the purpose of 
forming some general idea of the property to 
which he was heir — of inquiring into the na- 
ture of the demands “to which he was heir 
also;” but of late it was certain that he had 
repeatedly observed, “ that it was of no use 
to go till he was actually of age, and the re- 
membrance that he was yet but nineteen had 
not afflicted him.” 

But the visits of young Hastings did afflict 
and alarm him also. He opened his eyes, 
and beheld himself a fond, tender, ardent, 
impassioned lover, about to be torn, not only 
by the death of his dearest friend from the 
object to which his heart was devoted, who 
would thereby be thrown into the very arms 
of another — a lover of one whom he had no 
right to introduce to the poverty which he 
had inured himself to contemplate as tlie re- 
sult of his meditated sacrifice; — now only 
did he hold it as such, now did he first feel 
its sting. 

To see Emily no more, — to write to her 
mother, and at once confess his error, and 
abandon it, — prove to her that his projected 
plan of conduct was not the dream of a schem - 
ing boy, but the purpose of a well princi- 


rXTEGRITY. 


pled man, was the resolution that presented 
itself as most worthy of him, as that which 
she would undoubtedly approve. And yet 
would it not be right to open his whole heart 
to her? — to tell her — no! he never could tell 
her the extent of his love for Emily, his ve- 
neration for her own counsels, and the power 
such love and such regard would give him. 
if he were indeed so blessed as to be the cho- 
sen of her. daughter. But had he any right 
to suppose Emily could love him? Oh no! 
she was ever good and kind, but she had ne- 
ver, never felt the impetuous, agitating influ- 
ence which had now first blazed, but had 
long silently slumbered in his heart. 

Frederic’s acute sensibility, united to the 
child like ingenuousness of his nature, and 
that perfect ignorance of any world beyond 
the village around him, which had precluded 
the habit of concealing his feelings, showed 
at once the overwhelming anguish which 
took possession of his countenance as well 
as his bosom, and as no new or apparent 
cause existed, induced inquiries from the 
good rector, which ended not in confession, 
but in increased distress. 

Frederic’s absence, and inquiries after his 
health, soon placed him near the sick chair 
of that invalid who could alone restore him 
to hope, and even to self-forgiveness. Mrs. 
Shelburne heard all his doubts, fears, and 
condemnations of his own weakness, with 
the feelings of one who bad sounded all the 


INTFORITY. 


58 

depth beforehand, and is prepared where to 
hold out rational hopes, and where to de- 
mand the sacrifice fortitude can sustain, and 
principle may exactj she encouraged him to 
fulfil his intention of paying an immediate 
visit to his uncle, openly revealing his reso- 
lution of liquidating all the just debts of his 
father, and requesting information on the 
subject^ at the same time she entreated him 
to proceed under the immediate advice of 
his uncle, to do nothing rashly, and to per- 
form even his good deeds with regularity 
and wisdom, as the result of a determined 
principle, not a merely generous impulse. 

But what has this to do with Emily? — 
Alas! I see too plainly you have no hope to 
give me, where only hope would be sweet.” 

“When this is all settled, you will still, 
I trust, have something wherewith to begin 
life: you will have attained the knowledge 
necessary for employing it; and if Emily 
should have no objection to venturing, I will 
give my consent that she should marry you; 
in which case her fortune will form a capital 
that can hardly fail to insure all that a girl 
so modest and bounded in her wishes can 
desire. I know you, Frederic, and dare 
trust her to your love.” 

Frederic flung himself on his knees before 
her, who had ever been to him a consoling 
angel. 

“ Trust me? oh, yes! there indeed I may 
he trusted; but do you think will Emily her- 


INTEGRITY. 


i29 


helf — I dare not hope! yet surely she has 
some regard for me?” 

“ If 1 did not think she had, I should not 
talk to you thus, Frederic; but you must re- 
member she is yet very young, she is also 
very lovely, and will soon be thrown into 
the world. The whole case is one of much 
difficulty; early engagements are good for 
men, as they are the best shield they can 
carry into the world; but to women, they 
are often a source of deep solicitude, casting 
a shadow over the best years of existence. — 

I know not what to say.” 

‘‘Oh! condemn me not to depart in si- 
lence. Do not put my integrity to that test. 

I must know, from her own lips, at least that 
I have no rival: all other commands shall 
meet implicit obedience.” 

This was not exacted; for, in truth, Mrs. 
Shelburne was little less anxious than the 
lover himself; for, although well aware that 
Frederic possessed the unqualified esteem 
of her daughter, and, within a short time, 
her warmest admiration also, yet the frequent 
visits of her nephew had of late alarmed her; 
and she almost feared the deep anxiety and 
paleness of Kmily’s countenance had another 
cause beside her own sickness. 

In this she was wholly mistaken: she had< ^ 
been so long a sufferer, that she knew not 
how much more decidedly death had set his 
seal on her features, and with how much soli- 
citude her darling child was now exhibiting 
thf* s<>lf-control so diffif'ult to the tend<*r, 


30 


rXTEGRITY. 


trembling heart, when it seeks, to cheer 
with smiles the bed of death.” 

Emily could alone weep freely in the pre- 
sence of him whom she had long felt to be so 
entirely her friend, that in her perfect inno- 
cence and confidence he had been long held 
as her lover also; but she felt as if it were a 
sin to talk about in now ^ — nor was it less a 
sin to talk about leaving the country; — Fre- 
deric could not, therefore, be guilty of it. In 
fact it would have been an unnecessary in- 
fliction upon them both. 

In the ease which followed this explana- 
tion, the invalid appeared to gain spirits and 
consolation these beloved objects of her care 
could not, at this awful period, participate. 
It gave her strength to request a visit from 
Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, with whom she held 
a long and interesting conversation; fully ex- 
plaining the situation in which, with her ap- 
probation, her daughter was now placed; and 
adding, “that although she apprehended that 
probably three full years would elapse before 
Frederic could claim her daughter, yet, in 
order to obviate all difficulty on that point, 
she had left her own portion, (which was but 
a small one,) to be paid on her daughter’s 
twentieth birth -day, a period now distant 
about two years and a quarter.” 

Mrs. Hastings wept bitterly whilst her sis- 
ter thus spoke; and it was so seldom that her 
well-regulated spirit escaped the control of 
her religious principles, to indulge the stron- 


INTKGRITTc. 


31 


ger feelings of nature, that the invalid was 
more than ever assured that the heart of the 
mother was interested in the disposal of Emi- 
ly, and had unconsciously indulged in the 
idea of thus more closely uniting herself to 
a child she had ever considered as the sub- 
stitute for the daughter she had lost. That 
she should fondly love, and be most tenderly 
beloved in return by Emily, was a belief 
most dear and consolatory to the expiring 
mother; but if even Frederic Tracy had been 
3"et unknown, she would have shrunk from 
the idea of such an union with terror. 

“James, the eldest,” she would say to her- 
self, “ has given up the blandishments of life, 
to pursue wealth with an avidity unnatural 
to his age; and without the honest warmth of 
enthusiasm, flatters his father’s peculiarities, 
that he may obtain the management of his af- 
fairs: — never could my honest noble minded 
Emily be happy with such an one as him. 
William is candid, but weak; so that had he 
not made an imprudent choice, he could ne- 
ver have been that of an intelligent mind. 
Tom is good tempered, but utterly uninform- 
ed on every essential point: it had been ex- 
pected that he was to be taught by a kind of 
miracle; and whilst my excellent sister has 
been waiting for the work of grace, she has 
suffered the weeds of nature to flourish rank 
and luxuriant: with much that is good, poor 
Tom will never be a good man. They will 
all be valuable friends to my child, but God 


IM EGKITV. 


forbid any of them should ever become her 
husband.’’ 

There was something painful, and even 
ominous, in the appearance of the late guests 
to our young lovers, and the forebodings of 
prophetic sorrow were but too soon verified. 
Mrs. Shelburne was now in the situation of 
a weary traveller, who sees with joy the 
bourne to which (being called.) she has ac- 
customed herself to contemplate; she felt as 
if she had been permitted to accomplish much 
of what she desired to do, and was thankful 
for the power of abstracting herself from all 
earthly cares, and waiting in composure and 
thankfulness the hour of her dissolution. 
On parting with Frederic the following even- 
ing, she long retained his hand, and address- 
ed many words in the faint whisper \Vhich 
ushered in the silence of the tomb; the words 
were never forgotten; but he to whom they 
were addressed was unequal to repSly, and he 
left the room, followed by family, but only 
to the door. 

When the anxious daughter returned to 
the bedside, she was desired by the mother 

to give her a kiss, and then go and prepare 
her gruel herself, as she was used to do some 
weeks before.” Such was the last request of 
one who, living or dying, sought the welfare 
of her child in preference to her own. Emily 
obeyed with alacrity, happy that the wife of 
the rector was sitting with her mother, and 
the nurse supporting her pillows. Her task 


INTEGKITlc 


3 ^ 


was still unlinished, and Frederic still lingered 
in the parlour, when a little trampling was 
heard above, after which a light foot descend- 
ed, and with the tenderest sympathy announ- 
ced, “that the pure spirit had fled to the God 
that gave it.” 


CHAPTER l\ . 


Emily felt that shock which ail do feel, 
whenever death visits even that bed where he 
has been longest looked for ; — affection ever 
trembles at the stroke, and youth can hope, in 
despite of probability, and all diseases seem 
to end suddenly at last. Whatever skill and 
tenderness could, however, bestow in consol- 
ing her under this deprivation, she experi- 
enced, for the good neighbour who had re- 
ceived the last breath of her mother remain- 
ed with her, yet obtruded not upon her ; and 
her husband showed her all the attentions of 
a father, and the cares of a pastor. Frede- 
ric’s tears flowed as freely as her own ; and 
in his sympathy there was a cordial which 
at once softened and healed the heart ; and 
she had the rare satisfaction of feeling that 
she had a right to indulge in the comfort of 
knowing herself beloved, and of distinguish 


o4, 


INTEGRITI . 


ing, SO far as her timidity permitted, the ofa^ 
ject of her affections. 

But soon, oh! how soon, was this scene, 
“ pleasant though mournful,” in which the 
tenderness of pure and guileless love was 
sanctified not less by sorrow than rectitude, 
blighted in its holy vigils ! Mr. Hastings and 
his eldest son came over as soon as they were 
acquainted with the event, and the latter po- 
litely thanking the worthy neighbours, pro- 
fessed an intention of relieving them, “ by 
taking the cares of the house upon himself 
until the funeral was over;” and the former 
observed, that he should take Emily home in 
the carriage to her aunt. 

But not even the awe in which th® poor or- 
phan had ever stood to her uncle could in- 
duce her to acquiesce in this decision; and 
on finding it was impossible to carry the 
point, without an authority even the cold and 
severe uncle was unwilling to exert at such 
a time, she was permitted to remain in the 
house ; but the funeral was expedited ; and 
on the same evening, after ceremonious 
adieus to the warm and sympathising hearts 
of her affectionate neighbours, and still more 
restrained civility to the almost heart-broken 
Frederic, the father and son bore off their 
weeping relative. 

Emily now first perhaps knew the extent 
of her loss, in the change to which it subject- 
ed her, especially from its power of depriv- 
ing her of Frederic’s society, to which she 


INTEGRITY". 


35 


felt she had a right so long as he remained in 
England: but whatever might be her wishes 
on that subject, or the facilities which the con- 
siderate kindness of her mother had provided, 
Emily felt that she could not claim any thing 
on a point so delicate : her timid spirit “ could 
not tell its love,” still less sue for her lover’s 
presence. 

In the bosom of her kind and tender aunt, 
Emily could pour her sorrows freely; and in 
listening to the sublime consolations she be- 
stowed, her spirits became composed, and 
her mind strengthened. By degrees she was 
enabled to catch the soarings of an imagina- 
tion which ever mingled its holy reveries 
with the lessons of faith and hope ; and she 
became absorbed in those glorious contempla- 
tions which carry as after the friend we have 
lost to the heaven where they are now seated, 
and undraw the curtains of futurity to reveal 
even “ what eye hath not seen, and ear hath 
not heard.” 

But far different were the reflections of 
Mr. Hastings from those of his wife, on their 
deceased sister ; nor was it long before Emi- 
ly’s ear was shocked, and her heart alarmed 
and estranged, by reflections upon “ mere 
moral people,” — ‘‘formalists, who go to 
church that they may be seen of men,” — 
“a^ms-giving sinners who mean to purchase 
heaven, like poor sister Shelburne.” And 
when, from time to time, the memory of her 
"aother brought fresh tears into her eyes, she 


36 


IISTEGRITY. 


was exhorted “not to weep for her dead pa - 
rent, but for her own soul, which was dead in 
trespasses and sins, and take warning, lest 
she also should perish but this was not un- 
frequently followed by an half expressed ob- 
servation, indicative of her own utter inabi- 
lity to help herself, and of course an acknow- 
ledgment that the exhortation had been in 
vain. 

Indignation at these moments filled the 
heart, and sometimes flushed the pallid cheek 
of the orphan ; but the meek partner of this 
man was her beloved aunt, from whom she 
was ever receiving the tenderest attentions : 
not because his own power over her present 
happiness was absolute did she control her 
emotions, save in so far as to weep more 
abundantly. The house of her guardian was 
large and commodious, possessing many ad- 
vantages over that she had left, particularly 
in a garden and shrubbery, where, when she 
could walk alone, she never failed to wander, 
especially in a part which looked towards the 
road which led to the beloved home she had 
left and lost. 

Often would she look reproachfully towards 
it, as if she thought Frederic at least ought to 
be upon it on his way to visit her, although 
the few words she had been able to articulate 
on parting with him had forbade him to do so, 
or even to write, till he had heard from her, 
and it was certain she had not given him a 
single line. Never had he been so necessa- 


JDJTEGRITV. 


37 


ry to her comfort ; for all she could hope for 
in life seemed bound up in her connection 
with him : but she felt as if a spell was 
around her : she feared the sternness of her 
uncle, the sneers of James, the raillery of Tom, 
and even the gentle admonitions of her aunt, 
who was particularly desirous to impress up- 
on her mind, at this afflicting period, a renun- 
ciation of all worldly affections, and a devoted- 
ness to heavenly things, which was akin to mo- 
nastic seclusion. 

But one dull morning, when even the heavy 
clouds could not prevent her from pursuing 
the single amusement permitted, she had the 
satisfaction of seeing a post-chaise driving 
down the road, in which were her late neigh- 
bours, the rector and his lady ; and she imme- 
diately comprehended the delicate kindness by 
which Frederic had thus contrived to satisfy 
his own solicitude on her account, without dis- 
obeying her commands. Tears of gratitude 
stole into her eyes as slie returned to the house, 
and prepared to receive guests^o kind, and 
connected by memory with circumstances so 
interesting. 

Hapj)ily for all parties, the gentlemen were 
all out, and Emily could read the letter of 
Frederic, and even answ^er it without a blush. 
She learnt that, agreeable to the wish he had 
often expressed, but of late could not desire, 
his uncle had written, desiring him to return, 
and informing him, “ that his estates w ere at 
the present time prosperous, and demanding 

D 2 


38 


INTEGRITY. 


that attention he was now of an age to give,’' 
so that he would be soon placed in the way of 
estimating his real expectations. Frederic add- 
ed, “that as he appeared to be so situated as 
to be little likely to enjoy the sight of her, per- 
haps the sooner he set out the better.” 

As Emily read this she dropped upon her 
seat, and felt as if she were again called to 
bury her mother ; but the necessity of action 
roused her, and she wrote him an affectionate 
note, saying, “ that she consented to his de- 
parture, and hoped, like him, for better times ; 
urging him to come soon, and announce his 
departure himself.” She had scarcely given 
her letter to the friend, whose eloquent 
tongue had never ceased to dilate on the vir- 
tues of Frederic, when Mr. Hastings re-en- 
tered his house, and beheld his guests with 
some degree of surprise, and but little cour- 
tesy. 

Much as Emily was hurt, indignant as she 
knew she should be to see Frederic thus 
treated, yet she could on no account bring 
herself to retract her invitation ; and she 
hoped that her aunt, who with all her store 
of virtues was but held as a cypher in her 
own house, would yet exert herself to pro- 
cure them an hour in which to mourn over 
the past, and hope for the future. How much 
had she to say to Frederic? How many 
things to do for him ? — Ah ! why could they 
not meet again as they were wont ? Why 
could they not exchange promises of love at 


INTEGRITY. 


o9 


the grave of her who had permitted them, and 
who could look down upon them and bless 
their parting ? 

To finish the netting of a purse begun long 
before, to seek amongst her books for some 
small ones that contained the hand-writing 
of her mother, and choose from the drawings 
in her portfolio those which had been his fa- 
vourites, diverted the throbbing anguish of 
her heart a little, and employed her till a late 
hour in the night. She might, perhaps, still 
have continued to muse on a subject which 
had totally unfitted her for sleep, but she 
heard a little noise among the branches of the 
trees ; and considering herself, or rather her 
light, the object of attention to her youngest 
cousin, who, with all his father’s severity, yet 
enjoyed the improper liberty of entering at all 
hours, she hastily extinguished it, and hurried 
into bed. 

The next day Frederic made his appear- 
ance as soon as he conisidered the coast clear, 
and before he could have been expected, as 
he had nearly twenty miles to ride. His 
countenance and manners alike proved the 
sorrow that had taken possession of his heart, 
and for the present quenched the generous 
fervour which directed his intentions, and the 
hopes so natural to his age ; and he did not 
appear free from those doubts which of all 
others were most distressing to him as a lover, 
for whilst he thanked Emily for the note she 
had written, he observed, “ that it had been 


40 


INTEGRITY. 


long ere she wrote it, and then only by stra- 
tagem.” 

‘‘What can I do? every one seems watch- 
ing me ; — last night I sat up to finish this 
purse for you, and I was obliged to leave off 
for I am certain some one was under the 
window.” 

“ Yes, Emily, there was one there who has 
never ceased to watch you since the sad night 
that tore you from him, and whose very life 
seemed to hang on your health ; though he 
would not intrude, lest he should add a pang 
to a heart already so burthened. But surely 
to a love so sanctioned as mine has been, 
these concealments are wholly uncalled for. 
I shall not be an intrusive guest upon your 
uncle, but T must be considered in the light 
of an accepted lover to you ; our correspon- 
dence must be free, and even your timidity 
must give way to your generosity and resolu- 
tion.” 

Emily answered by saying, she “ hoped to 
hear from him frequently,” 

“ That you will certainly do ; and be as- 
sured, Emily, you will always hear the simple 
truth: I will fulfil my promise to that dear 
saint who is now, perhaps, witnessing my 
words. I will not ask you to share my po- 
verty; and if — if I should be so unhappy as 
to lose your affections, I will not claim you 
from one who, in possessing them, can make 
you more happy than myself. But, dear 
Emily, remember this, that you hold all my 


INTEGRITl. 


41 


happiness, almost my very being, in your 
hands. I love you with a devotedness, an 
intensity of regard, of which you can form 
no idea. V have no other good, no other ob- 
ject, on the face of the wide earth: — the 
world I quit, like that I go to, has only you 
in it.” 

“ Alas! and who have I ?” said Emily. 

“ You have another mother in your aunt, 
and most sincerely do I thank God that it is 
so; but she is the mother of a son,—- a son 
that loves you.” 

“ He loves me only as a cousin ; but if your 
suspicions were even right, Tom could never 
be my choice ; besides he is a mere boy. You 
are unhappy, Frederic, but do not therefore 
be unjust, — there is no need to increase my 
unhappiness.” 

The afflicted youth was more than appeas- 
ed — he was grateful: and he at length tore 
himself away in an agitation of soul, so deep 
and so ingenuously expressed, as to affect 
Mrs. Hastings exceedingly; and in her pro- 
mises of kindness he found the only consola- 
tion the severity of his present sufferings per- 
mitted. 

Yet was Frederic, in the present instance, 
less the object of pity than Emily, though the 
ardour of his feelings might render his suf- 
ferings more acute. When the passion of 
grief had subsided, conscious rectitude, the 
resolution of a lofty spirit, the expectation of 
new and busy scenes, the remembrance of 


42 


IKTEGKITY. 


how much he might have to engage in, re- 
specting not only the disposal, but the na- 
ture of his property, which, he dreaded to 
think, was partly that of “ men and brethren,” 
was altogether of a nature to occupy the mind : 
when to this was added the change of scene, 
the novelty of all objects, the necessity of 
mixing with various characters, and the ex- 
ercise of that curiosity ever awake in young 
and inquiring minds, it must be allowed that 
the weary lapse of time spent like Emily’s 
was (if it could have been foreseen) infin- 
itely more appalling. 

Mrs. Hastings had been long accustomed 
to spend much of her time in her own dress- 
ing-room, which was considered . as given up 
to her household cares, and her devout read- 
ing, but which was also appropriated to a 
little system of private charity, which she 
concealed, not only from good motives, but 
those which arose from the fear of being for- 
bidden to continue it, by a husband whose 
name was ever foremost in a list of subscrip- 
tions, and who did not really grudge the tri- 
fle she might expend; but who never failed 
to thwart, in the mere exercise of power, all 
the little plans, and frustrate the wishes of 
his wife. With the language of Scripture 
ever on his tongue, and manifesting obedi- 
ence to a great portion of its precepts in his 
life, he was yet in his heart, as in his man- 
ners, a stranger to the spirit of Christianity, 
end to all that unfeigned humility and benig- 


INTEGKIT Y. 


43 


naiit consideration for others, which renders 
the truly pious man not less an example than 
a blessing to those around him. 

Thus, with little variation, was her aunt 
employed from breakfast to dinner, which 
was a late hour for the country, yet came too 
soon, according to Emily’s calculation ; for 
then came uncle, with his long grace, child- 
ish, ill-concealed epicurism, and uncharitable 
denunciations. When the cloth was drawn, 
James regularly took the lead in conv.ersa- 
tion, which ever effectually sealed all female 
lips, as it consisted of ceaseless dissertations 
on bales of goods, shipments, invoices, and 
prices of manufacturers ; on whose necessities 
he descanted with the pleasure of a demon, 
as the medium of compelling them to part 
with goods below their value. So anxious 
was he on this head, as frequently to turn the 
dining room itself into a place of business, 
and spend many hours with his pen in his 
hand, in which employment his father wil- 
lingly joined him; and when Tom was at 
home, as a mere relief to the burden of idle- 
ness, he also partook their labours. 

Sometimes a minister of religion shared 
their table; and, at considerable intervals, 
there were parties of serious people, in which 
the men descanted on the badness of the 
times, and the sins of those the world called 
good. The women were uniformly silent; 
but their eyes were busy to detect deficiency 
or superfluity, in one whom they felt to be a 


44 


INTEGRITY. 


superior, rather than to imitate her actions, 
and bask in the sunshine of her unsullied 
sanctity : but by far the greater part of those 
who frequented the table of Mr. Hastings 
were people with whom he was anxious to do 
what he called “ a great stroke of business,” 
and were principally Americans. Emily 
could not forbear to observe, how frequently 
on these occasions even the usual pious adages 
of her uncle were omitted ; but the conversa- 
tion was not, therefore, rendered general. 
Every subject connected with literature, 
amusement, or even knowledge of the world ; 
all that exalts the nature, refines the intel- 
lect, or bespeaks the social affections of man, 
— were as carefully avoided as if they be- 
longed to beings of another species; and 
Emily felt assured that the British merchant, 
as described by her mother to have been real- 
ised by her father, was indeed a being of ano- 
ther and far superior order. 

It would, however, sometimes happen that 
these sons of commerce had an eye for the 
lonely, lovely girl, whose mourning habit be- 
spoke her orphan state, and her consequent 
freedom from parental direction ; but on such 
occasions, one or other of her cousins never 
failed to convey by some hint, the idea “ of 
her being engaged, young as she was.” Emily 
ever felt grateful for this ; but she could not 
feel grateful to her youngest cousin for hover- 
ing around her as if he were the favoured 


INTEGRITY. 


45 


lover, and ready to exhibit in the character 
of the dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit. 

“ Thus passed her time, a dull yet troubled 
stream,” which first admitted a ray of light to 
gild its waves, in the form of a letter from 
Frederic. The first letter of a lover is regis- 
tered in many a female heart, and by none 
could it be more estimated than that of Emily ; 
to whom it was not only dear as the com- 
munication of a friend, whose welfare she was 
impatient to learn, but as affording subjects 
on which to exercise memory and hope, and 
recall that love of general knowledge and 
particular improvement which once distin- 
guished her, when directed by a mother’s in- 
struction, and encouraged by a lover’s smile. 

Whatever might be the sense of happiness 
Emily enjoyed from this letter, it was at least 
a secret one ; for it was handed to her by her 
uncle, with an observation on the impropriety 
of such letters, and the expense of foreign 
postages : — and for several days the conver- 
sation after dinner was sure to turn either 
‘‘on the abominable sin of all slave-holders, 
on whose property the curse of-God inevita- 
bly rested,” or upon “the vacillating nature 
of West India property, the terrible torna- 
does lately heard of in Antigua;” from 
whence would arise a disquistion on the 
wickedness and inconstancy of the human 
heart, especially as life advanced and tempt- 
ation was given — “for then, then^^^ said Mr. 
Hastings emphatically, “ we perceive the 

F 


4G 


INTEGRITY. 


emptiness of all reliance on the appearance 
of innocence, and the affectation of integrity 
with which we were pleased in school-boy 
days, was but an allurement of the Evil One 
to blind our eyes to the wickedness of the 
heart — we then see that what we called 
righteousness was indeed but ‘filthy rags,’ 
that could not cover the loathsome sinfulness 
of the soul which wore them.” 

Mr. Hastings, poor man, did not perceive 
how much of the “ corrupt nature” he thus 
descanted on was itself mingling in this tirade, 
nor how much of bad passion it was likely to 
produce in the wounded bosom of his unof- 
fending niece : it certainly answered one pur- 
pose congenial with his views, for poor Emily 
answered the letter of Frederic in her own 
room, and afterwards put it in the post-ofl[ice 
with her own hands; and being ignorant of 
the necessity of paying for foreign letters, 
Frederic never received it. 

In his first communication he had been able 
to say little as to his future prospects, beyond 
that which was decidedly the uppermost on 
his mind, vi^ that he found his uncle remark- 
ably attentive to the welfare of all those un- 
happy beings under his care, insomuch that 
his departure from the settlement, which was 
expected to take place when the minority of 
his nephew concluded, was looked upon as 
the greatest evil that could befall them ; and 
he observed, “ that his aunt and cousin, (who 
was indeed a very sweet girl,) were almost 


INTEGRITY. 


47 


^vorshipped by their attendants, whom they 
personally instructed in their religious du- 
ties,” &c. ; and he concluded by an assurance 
that he should write again by a vessel that 
was leaving the harbour iij^^two or three weeks, 
and urged Emily to lose no opportunity of 
writing to him, as her letters could alone sup- 
port him through the arduous duties which 
lay before him. 

But weeks, and even months, passed, and 
this letter never appeared. In the course of 
inquiries on subjects of foreign correspond- 
ence with her aunt, which arose from her so- 
licitude, Emily now learnt her error, and she 
hastened to repair it by writing a long and 
explanatory letter to Frederic; which, when 
finished, she gave to Tom, desiring him to for- 
ward it in a proper manner. 

“ So I will, my pretty coz, though I am not 
over and above fond of the business; but, 
however, it seems you’re not very rapid in 
your answers to this sugar-cane lover. I hope* 
your taste for rum begins to be a rum taste 
in your own eyes ; it was always so in mine.” 

Emily answered by stating the mistake she 
had acted upon, at which he laughed heartily ’ 
and ran away to tell James, leaving her vexed 
with herself for speaking to him, and deter- 
mined that she would get a wiser agent when 
she wrote again. 

But, alas ! she was not called upon for ano- 
ther answer: weeks and months passed on, 
and no letter appeared, nor did any circum- 


48 


INTEGRITY. 


stance transpire whicli could account for his 
silence ; and, most unhappily for her, the only 
family in the neighbourhood who could have 
relieved her conjectitres were removed from 
her inquiries, — the ^lergyman who educated 
Frederic having bee.^/removed to a great dis- 
tance, by the presentation of a living in the west 
of England, to which she had received no de- 
terminate address. She was, therefore, left to 
melancholy conjecture as to the cause of his 
silence, which, in the low state of her spirits, 
she was generally inclined to ascribe to death ; 
but it is certain many sighs rose from her bo- 
som, as she glanced for the thousandth time 
upon those words in his letter which spoke 
with admiration of his fair cousin. 


CHAPTER V. 


Whilst Emily consumed her time in vain 
conjecture, fruitless sorrow, and that hope de- 
ferred “ which maketh the heart sick,” very 
different emotions were taking place in the 
rest of the family, with the exception of her 
aunt, the “ even tenor of whose way” kept on 
its righteous course, like a stream upon the 
mountain, known only by its distant shining. 
The bustling, pushing, speculating James, had 


INTEGRITY. 


49 


done so much business, that he was reduced 
to the necessity of standing still, and inquir- 
ing “ whether the many difficulties with which 
he was encompassed could by any possible 
means be relieved like many other men 
who have placed themselves in this situation, 
his first inquiry was after the proper^ the next 
was the possible^ for relief pr ruin was at the 
door. 

The principal business done by “Hastings 
and Son” had been to America; and the Uni- 
ted States, enriched by those wars which im- 
poverished Europe, was certainly a field which 
was likely tr be cultivated with success, and 
might have been so to any person whose pro- 
perty was so good, and whose connections 
were so excellent as theirs. But the demon of 
avarice, leagued with that most destructive of 
all gambling practised by commercial specu- 
latists, urged tiiem into giving an extent of 
credit utterly incompatible with their capital ; 
and at this time, when they appeared most 
flourishing, they were in fact tottering under 
the weight of their honours. 

James had long ago settled his brother 
William in Baltimore, partly for the purpose 
of collecting the debts of the house, and partly 
to remove him and his low-born spouse out 
of the way of observation ; for it was his in- 
tention to unite himself with some wealthy 
and well-connected personage, who might 
further his views.' Emily’s dower being far 
too small for his wishes, he left bfr to the fu- 


oO 


INTEGRITY. 


ture happiness of marrying Tom: but it did 
not appear that his schemes on this point 
were atte^nded with the facility he possessed 
on other matters ; for either he never got 
time to court, or the objects of his wishes 
were displeased with the wholesale nature of 
his offices ; and ^Tbm himself, wedded to his 
dogs and gun, showed much less pleasure in 
the society of his cousin than might have been 
expected, and proveil that his principal induce- 
ment for visitinsr his aunt had been, in fact, the 
pleasure of leaving home. James, at this pe- 
riod, was much too busy to discuss these. sub- 
jects; his whole manners exhibited deep thought, 
perpetual mental discussion, and that abrupt- 
ness of decision and shortness of temper which 
indicate a mind ill at ease. That of his father 
betrayed still stronger symptoms of solicitude ; 
but he was certainly much le^ severe in his 
general manners, and he spoke more frequently 
to his wife and Emily with affability, and even 
kindness : his general indulgence to his darling 
Tom was even more extended ; and it was evi- 
dent that the trouble which rendered his son 
irritable gave him a lesson of humility and 
consideration for others which he had long 
needed. 

This state of affairs had not continued long, 
when Mr. Hastings announced an intention 
of removing to London, where only, he ob- 
served, a mercantile business so extensive as 
theirs could be carried on with due conveni- 


INTEGRITY. Oi 

ence : his son had, in fact, submitted to be 
cooped up in the country much too long. 

The first emotion of Emily’s mind was that 
of pleasure on this occasion. She felt as if in 
Londoh she could scarcely fail to gain some 
intelligence of Frederic : — besides, she was 
born in London ; and although she had little 
remembrance of it, yet since she was tom 
from all the places associated with the best 
hours of her existence, the mere circumstance 
of change afforded somewhat to soothe and 
relieve a heart at times oppressed almost to 
breaking. 

But when she looked at her aunt, when she 
perceived the marble paleness which over- 
spread her countenance, ancj^ieard the tremu- 
lous voice in which she uttered an inquiry ‘‘ as 
to the time when they thought of removing,” 
sympathy with her feelings forbade her to re- 
joice — if, indeed, any emotion to which she was 
now subject could merit a term so strong. 

The mandate to remove from a home where 
she had lived so many years in honour and 
usefulness, — where she was the centre to 
which many looked for aid, and from whence 
she diffused constantly a beneficial influence, 
and to which the natural affections of her open 
heart had become more strongly attached, 
because they had not been permitted to ex- 
pend themselves in the common avocations of 
life, — was indeed a stroke for which this hea- 
venly minded woman was not prepared ; and 
it is certain that on retiring to her room. 


I?fTEGRITY. 


6 

‘‘some natural tears she dropt, but wiped 
them soon for, on the next morning, when 
Emily sought her for the purposes of offering 
consolation and assistance, she found her task al- 
ready accomplished — the obedience of the 
wife, the submission of the Christian, were 
alike fully and sweetly exemplified. 

“ I could wish,” said she, “ that my dear 
husband were, at his time of life, less harassed 
with worldly affairs, and rather retiring from 
the world, than entering more immediately 
upon it ; but I am' well aware that He who 
calls us to this change can support us under 
it. I was become too fond of a place where 
every tree and shrub have grown under my 
own eye, and began to feel myself a kind of 
general mother, since the babes whom I cloth- 
ed have claimed clothing for theirs from my 
hands : like the patriarch, I was beginning to 
rest in my little city of refuge ; but the voice 
of Providence calls me from it, that I may so- 
journ in a strange land, and be taught, from 
sopow and inconvenience, to seek daily, a 
‘ city not made with hands, eternal in the hea- 
vens.’ ” 

Emily kissed her still pale cheek and wept. 

“ Do not mourn this change, my dear girl, 
either for yourself or me. ’Tis true, we leave 
the dust of her who was so precious to us 
both ; but her spirit, freed from the imprison- 
ment of a suffering body, may accompany us 
in our removal, and help to sustain us in our 
trials. Eondon, like all other large cities, 


IJfTEGRITY. 


53 


has, doubtless, many evils ; but it has likewise 
many blessings. There the word of God is 
preached in all its purity, the labours of Chris- 
tian charity are abundant, and the arts of ci- 
vilized life (those pure sources of mental en- 
joyment, in which human power appears least 
sullied with human depravity) may be enjoyed 
in a manner we can never hope for in the 
country: — Oh ! we shall be very comfortable — 
we shall have much to be thankful for.” 

As every day which succeeded seemed to 
increase this wish and power of looking at the 
bright side with her aunt, Emily, whose long- 
depressed spirit needed change, and who was 
precisely at that season of life when novelty 
is itself a plea.sure, began now to busy her 
mind with expectations and preparations for 
all that was to come, and learnt with some 
trouble that it could not be made convenient 
to remove until she had accomplished her 
twentieth birth-day ; at which time the sale of 
her mother’s house was to take place, in order 
to fulfil the conditions of her will. 

The recollection of the reasons why this 
bequest had been thus made, the remembrance 
of her prospects at the time, and the conscious- 
ness of how much more happy she might have 
been, affected her deeply, and led her to ob- 
serve more than she had done the evident de- 
jection of her uncle’s spirits. As sorrow, 
like death, is a great equaliser, she gained 
courage frequently to address him ; and find- 
ing that he always listened to her with plea- 


54 


INTEGEITi. 


sure, and appeared to find relief from the 
pressure on his spirits by talking with her, 
she became by degrees much interested in his 
cares and concerns, and even ventured, at her 
aunt’s instigation, to engage him in conver- 
sation upon them perpetually. 

One day she observed with a sigh, and an 
averted face, “that it was a great pity the 
family should be detained in the country on 
her account : there was no necessity now for 
the settling of her affairs until she was actu- 
ally of age, when all might be done at the 
same time.” 

“ Very true, Emily; as you say, it will be 
better to be done then. I hope, long ere then, 
to have large remittances from America<i^ and 
you may — God only knows — you may also 
receive news from that side of the globe. At 
present, we are both poor and bereaved, 
though in a very different way ; but a year 
may bring many things to pass, and, at all 
events, it is our duty to hope and to judge 
favourably. When people and property are 
at such an immense distance, we know not 
what may be occurring ; — we must trust, and 
be patient.” 

Although in this, speech it was evident the 
mind of Mr. Hastings was running still more 
on the thousands he had sent over the Atlan- 
tic, than on the virgin affections his neice had 
also sent on the same faithless element ; yet 
as this was the first time he had ever hinted 
at Frederic’s silence, without some bitter sar- 


INTEGRITY. 


5y 

casin, or sweeping condemnation, Emily felt 
her heart more than usually softened towards 
him ; and she observed, though with many 
blushes, “ that she had never allowed herself 
to condemn that which she could not help la- 
menting : she was persuaded that (she spoke 
with difficulty) death alone had — ” 

“ No, Frederic is not dead, — at least, he 
was not dead three months since, but he was 
looking ill, very ill ; for I know a person — 
It is certain I have no right to say he is liv- 
ing now, but 1 hope he is, I sincerely hope 
so.” 

“ That sincere Jiope\, though it conveyed no 
part of its confidence to Emily, but rather gave 
her an assurance that something very terrible 
had befallen Frederic, and was dragging him 
into an early grave, yet certainly inspired her 
with more sympathy and tenderness for her 
uncle ; which increased exceedingly from the 
softened tone of his general manner towards 
her aunt, and in fact to all around him. This 
she imputed entirely to the circumstance of 
finding himself about to leave his native place, 
and the society in which he had long held so 
important a part, together with a persuasion 
that although James spoke continually of mo- 
nies coming in, and occasionally made a dis- 
play of considerable sums, they had in fact lost 
more by his great management than they had 
gained. 

No more ^vas said about the sale of Emily’s 
property, in her presence; but their own 


56 


INTEGRITl w 


house and furniture were sold to a gentleman 
in the neighbourhood, who paid a sum of mo- 
ney in part of payment, and gave a bond for 
the rest. Emily and several other persons 
were present when the bond was signed, 
which was for two thousand two hundred 
pounds: the purchaser inquired where he 
should transmit the interest when due, ob- 
serving that he would pay the principal in a 
year and half from that time, perhaps sooner. 

Mrs. Hastings never presumed to interfere 
in any matter of business, knowing that both 
her son and her husband would alike turn a 
deaf ear to her counsels ; but as James was 
now in London, and Mr. Hastings under 
much depression of spirits, and very gentle, 
she laid her hand at this moment upon his 
arm, and said in a supplicating tone, — 

“ My love, you know that is precisely the 
sum of money for which you are guardian to 
your poor brother Charles’s children, — sup- 
pose you put it into Emily’s hands : she will 
receive the interest, and be, I am certain, a 
faithful guardian of it for the children ; and 
you have so very much to do in the world 
when you should have but very little, that it 
is right to make our young people help you 
in cases where they can.” 

A deep gloom came over the brow of Mr. 
Hastings, but it was that of sorrow, not an- 
ger ; — he revolved the matter a few moments 
in his mind, and then said, “ You are right, 
Emily may be trusted; and it will certainly 


INTEGRITY. 


67 


ease my mind and my hands much, if she will 
take charge of this.” 

Emily advanced, signifying her willingness 
to do any thing in her power. 

“ This is a matter quite within your power, 
my love,” said Mr. Hastings ; for you have 
nothing to do but send the interest half-yearly 
to the widow, till her twin-children are of age, 
and then divide the principal, which is all 
they have, poor things, (if I can make it more 
I will.) The mother has a small annuity; 
but it is so small, that you must be always 
particular in sending the interest as soon as 
you receive it. 1 am sure our friend Mr. 
Stanton, so long as he holds it, will never 
allow you to be inconvenienced by delay, for 
he is a very regular man.” 

Mr. Stanton was at this time in earnest 
conversation with his attorney, but on being 
told that the interest was to be henceforward 
paid to Miss Shelburne, who would be the 
holder of his bond, he observed only, With 
all his heart, provided she did not marry with- 
out giving him notice ; for though he was will- 
ing to be a fair lady’s debtor, he might have 
less liking for her wedded lord.” This pos- 
sibility, for the first time, seemed to strike 
Mr. Hastings ; who putting the bond into 
Emily’s hand, said in a low but solemn man- 
ner, — 

“ Emily, if you fulfil your aunt’s wishes and 
mine by accepting this trust, remember that 
it is one of the most awful nature ; — it is for 

F 


5B IHTEGRITY. 

the helpless, the fatherless. Never resign it 
even to your husband ; — no ! not if you should 
marry my son.” 

Emily started, as if she felt that were im- 
possible; but recollecting herself, she took 
the bond, saying only, “ I hope I shall do no- 
thing wrong;” and immediately retired. 

Many thoughts rushed at this time through 
her mind, and she recollected many little cir- 
cumstances which induced her to believe that 
there was something like a positive intention 
in James to man'y her to Tom, when the lat- 
ter should be of age, to which period some 
months were still wanting; and she felt as- 
sured that the habitual ramblings of her young 
cousin from his pleasureless home; his per- 
sonal vanity, and the pains he had taken to 
keep away all other lovers, by assuring him 
that he had no rival, was probably the reason 
why he had never taken the trouble to per- 
secute her with his addresses. Emily w^as 
not romantic ; and though both lovely and in- 
teresting in the highest degree, she had been 
hitherto saved from the trouble of rejecting 
suitors ; yet she certainly did feel afraid of 
Tom, for she had a very great affection to- 
wards him as a relation, and would have felt 
it difficult to be firm in any mode of conduct 
which he might deem unkind ; yet her disap- 
probation of him as a future husband was so 
decided, that she needed in this case no refer- 
ence to the past to save her from the future. 
She must not only have obliterated all her 


INTEGRITY. 


59 


mother’s lessons from her mind, but also en- 
tirely have changed that taste for refined in- 
telligence ; that love for deep-seated virtue and 
unobtrusive piety, which had “ grown with 
her growth,” in the society of Frederic Tracy, 
on whom her mind was at this time, with re- 
newed anxiety, continually meditating. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The hour now speedily arrived which tore 
the family for ever from the home of many 
years ; and the feelings of Emily were severely 
tried in parting with those poor neighbours, 
to whom she had of late been frequently the 
minister of her aunt’s maternal cares ; since to 
her they could speak fi’eely of their love to 
madam, and all the fears they felt, “ that she 
would never live in London, but drop off as 
the rest of her family had done,” Many a 
bad omen was related, many a dismal fore- 
boding given, and, as if the evil of the day was 
not sufficient, no circumstance of sorrowful 
tendency omitted ; which is the usual practice 
of the poor to those they deem the rich. 
Their journey passed without incident, and 
they arrived safely in the precincts of Bed- 


INTEGRITY. 


tiO 

ford Square, where James had secured them 
excellent lodgings. 

But James himself was not there to receive 
them, and Tom, who travelled on horseback, 
had not arrived. The heart of each parent 
seemed to sink, or look to Emily for support, 
which she was anxious to bestow, but found 
difficult to offer, as she was certain that the 
presence of their eldest son was of greater 
importance to them at this juncture than they 
chose to own ; for it was certain from many 
circumstances, that Mr. Hastings had en- 
trusted him with something which he now 
desired exceedingly to take out of his hands. 

The following day passed, and still James 
did not appear. The next was the Sabbath; 
and it was evident that both alike struggled 
to find in the duties and consolations of the 
day that abstraction from worldly concerns 
which it was impossible to obtain, even when 
attending a celebrated honourable preacher 
in the neighbourhood, to whom they had long 
looked forward as the minister of the great- 
est good their souls could receive : — every 
hour increased the burden on their spirits. 

Tom arrived in the course of this evening : 
and ev4n the conduct which formerly would 
have .excited the severest reprehension, that 
of travelling on the Sabbath, failed to elicit 
remark from the father, so much was he hum- 
bled or altered by the solicitude he felt ; but 
Emily was soon rendered awake to the cir- 
cumstance of her cousin’s round declaration. 


INTEGRITY. 


61 


*• That he would take her every where on 
the morrow ; but that he should never lose 
sight of her again, till he took her for better 
for worse.” 

“Let us see that you deserve her,” said 
the father. 

“ And that she thinks you do,” observed 
the mother. 

“ Ohl Emmy and I understand each other,” 
said Tom, with a shrug : “ in the country, 
girls are obliged to appear shy, and all that, 
but in town ’tis another affair, — is’nt it, Coz ?” 

“I wish you would not talk so foolishly, 
Tom,” said Emily, with a look of anger, not 
unmixed with alarm ; for without attaching 
any determinate idea to her sense of fear, she 
yet felt as if she were less defended, from any 
evil before her, in London than the country, 
and she perceived that her uncle had no longer 
the power of controlling bis sons. He had 
been severe and ungracious to them as boys, 
but yielded all that enabled him to retain au- 
thority over them as men; he had forfeited 
love first, and wealth afterwards, and nothing 
remained to him now. 

Nearly ten days elapsed before James ap- 
peared, and it was then under such circum- 
stances as to create alarm rather than plea- 
sure : his face was haggard, his dress disor- 
dered: he had travelled from Liverpool, he 
said, on the outside of a coach, and eagerly 
asked for wine, which he swallowed with an 
avidity so different to his usual habits, as al- 


62 


INTEGRITY. 


most to excite terror in those around him, who 
sat in silent expectation of something they 
yet dreaded to hear. 

At length, Mr. Hastings, summoning some- 
what of his former importance, observed, 

“We thought it strange, James, — I say, 
we thought it somewhat singular, son James, 
— that we did not-^” 

“ I dare say you did ; but there are many 
strange things in the world. However, to 
cut the matter short, T must tell you that I 
ran down to Liverpool after what I expected 
to be a good thing, — in fact, a devilish good 
thing, — don’t start, mother, you’ll find more 
to start at, by-and-bye — ’twas a cargo of goods 
from Bondara — and — but ’tis no use to mince 
the matter — so here goes — ” 

As he poured another bumper of wine down 
his throat, Mr. Hastings said, apprehensively, 
“ You certainly could not think of purchas- 
ing, James, when we had so many bills out ? 
when in fact you — ” 

“Yes I could: surely the greater the de- 
mand for money, the greater the necessity for 
procuring it ; and I hoped by a lucky hit to 
recover all. The securities in my pocket, 
which I wish to God you had continued to 
deny me, furnished the means. In short, I 
raised the wind — fiew to Liverpool — outbid 
all competitors, and became the possessor of 
— of damned infernal rubbish, the most com- 
plete take in that ever poor devil — ” 

The narrative was interrupted by a deep 


INTEGRITy. 


0.5 

groan, and in another moment Mr. Hastings 
dropped lifeless on the floor. 

Happily, the loud shrieks of Emily brought 
up the mistress of the house, who entering 
the room, perceived the cause of alarm, and 
procured immediate medicinal assistance. A 
vein was opened, the stunned, afflicted man by 
degrees recovered his senses, and with them 
a knowledge of his sorrows ; — a perception of 
evil far beyond all that he had even imagined 
as the consequence of his past imprudence. 

James, suddenly sobered by tlie sight of his 
father’s situation, and the rigid paleness of his 
silent mother, who appeared like a martyr suf- 
fering under the torture, began to pour words 
of comfort, as well as he was able, on the ear 
of his unhappy parent : he protested “ that he 
had been drunk and mad ; that things were not 
near so bad as he had represented them — the 
cargo would yet turn to account — the vessel 
would be up in a day or two, and they would 
examine her, and make the most of his bad 
bargain.” 

But deep groans, and a repeated wave of 
the hand, indicating a desire that he would 
depart, was all the answer of the father, who 
continued throughout the whole night to 
struggle inwardly, as with a torrent that over- 
whelmed his heart ; at some times fixing his 
eyes on his wife, or niece, with an expression 
of horror for a moment, then suddenly avert- 
ing them, as if writhing under acute pain, and 
yet unwilling to express it. 


04 


I>T£GRITV. 


Ever a man difficult of access, the sympathy 
of silence for some time was all that either 
had it in their power to offer, though the 
heart of the wife was always ready to plead 
he consolations of Divine goodness ; at length 
3mily, deeply affected, and remembering 
that — 

the grief which cannot speak, 

Wliispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break, 

ventured, in a tone of apprehensive tenderness, 
to say, “ Would it be better, my dear sir, for 
me to leave you with my aunt. Perhaps talk- 
ing freely might relieve you.” 

The patient shook his head, as if to negative 
the inquiry ; but as Mrs. Hastings looked ap- 
proval, she determined to leave them for a short 
time. Before going out, she stooped over the 
couch on which her uncle lay, and pressed her 
lips on his fevered cheek. ’Twas the first time 
she ever remembered to have kissed him, and 
but for the overwhelming emotion of the hour, 
she would have vvondered at her own temerity ; 
and even now she started at the effect it pro- 
duced, for half rising, he suddenly flung his 
arm around her, and uttering words for the 
first time since his seizure cried “ God bless 
thee, my poor girl,” and burst into a torrent of 
tears. 

Not the stricken rock touched by mira- 
culous power could haVe been beheld with 
more astonishment than both his compassion- 


INTEGRITY. 


66 


ate attendants evinced, for in his afflictions 
they were afflicted even before, and no deter- 
minate object of selfish suffering was offered 
to their consideration : they intuitively com- 
prehended how great must be the agony, how 
intense the struggle, which thus bowed down 
as it were a giant before their eyes, and re- 
duced to more than infantine weakness him 
who had appeared to move in a sphere above, 
or beyond the common sympathies and suf- 
fering of his nature. — Though no man was 
less endearing in his manners, yet it was 
certain that he was deeply affecting in his 
sorrows 

Long and bitterly he wept: but as the 
passion of grief subsided, he looked up at his 
wife, as if he were capable of listening to her, 
and would be thankfiil to hear her speak]; 
and if ever human voice could say to the 
overwhelming flood of sorrow, Peace, be 
still!” had the power: since she united 
every sacred motive for the self-control she 
recommended, every promise of Divine aid 
his circumstances might demand, with a calm 
assurance that whatever might be her portion 
for future life, whether of poverty, degrada- 
tion, or laboui’, she was ready to enter upon 
it cheerfully, — to accept it as a cup of suffer- 
ing prepared by the hand of mercy, for some 
unseen, but most benignant purpose — as a 
trial of faith and patience, given to them as 
“ seals of their inheritance,” — as proofs that 


66 


liS’TEGRITr. 


they were ‘‘ heirs of the promise,” children, 
who being loved, were chastened. 

Mr. Hastings looked at her with tenderness 
and gratitude ; but he seemed to be incapable 
of lifting up his heart, in the manner she recom- 
mended, as he answered, “ Thank you, my 
Jove, — yours is indeed good advice, and your 
professions worthy of yourself ; — but what do 
you say, my little girl?” 

“ I say, that when you are better I am sure 
(let ray cousin have done what he may) your 
united exertions will soon bring every thing 
round ; that I can take charge of my aunt 
whom I will never leave, and bye-and-bye, sir, 
you know, I shall have money to ofter you, and 
— cannot 1 lend you some now ?” 

Another agonising burst of sorrow inter- 
rupted the promise on her lips ; and when it 
subsided, which was not for a long time, he 
entreated her to retire : “ he could see no one 
but his wife at present.” — Emily retired, but 
not to rest. The day was then risen, and the 
usual occupations of life taken place ; but a 
deep desolation — a silence as of death — reign- 
ed in their apartments ; and Emily sat down 
in the drawing-room, under an oppression of 
spirit as great as the king of terrors could have 
inflicted. 

After a short time, the sobs of her aunt 
were audible ; and short, broken words, utter- 
ed in a voice of agony utterly different to the 
resignation she had lately evinced, broke from 
her lips, and to her increased astonishment. 


LNfEGRITV. 


67 


were uttered in a tone of reproach which it 
seemed cruel to use to a man so afiiicted. 
Conscious that she ought not to hear even a 
sound which conveyed a meaning, Emily fled 
from the room, to seek in her own chamber 
composure to her agitated spirits, and the 
power of beseeching Almighty mercy on those 
for whom she wept, and Almighty guidance to 
her own bewildered mind. 

She had passed some hours in this, state, 
when a message from Tom, entreating her to 
make his breakfast, drew her to a sense of 
her own wants ; and although feeling very ill, 
she immediately descended. 

“ It is very late, past two, I believe, but 1 
couldn’t go to bed till I thought my father 
was out of danger, so that must be my ex- 
cuse. — Why ! Emily child, you look like a 
ghost !” 

“ I have not been in bed.” 

“ I thought as much : upon my word, 
James has made a pretty kettle of fish, take 
it altogether, with his magnificent doings.— 
My idleness, as he called it, was a much 
better thing ; but the fact is, I never was idle, 
either I was fishing, shooting, or hunting, con- 
tinually.” 

‘‘ More the pity : had you been in the count- 
ing-house, you might have persuaded James 
to attend more to my uncle’s wishes.” 

“ Deuce a bit : — Jemmy got the length of 
his foot, from pretending to get money, and 
cut a dash, both which father loves dearly : 


68 


INTEGRITY. 


besides, he knew in his heart that he owed 
us something, for never allowing us to dance, 
or go to a play, as other people do : had I 
done that^ as the Bensons, and Castletons, 
and other young men did, like them I would 
have ^pent hours at the desk every day with 
pleasure. — I should have loved my father 
then, and been delighted to have helped him ; 
but as it was, I felt hke nobody else, — I ha- 
ted our dull, mum-keeping home, and would 
have left it long since if you had not been 
there.” 

‘‘ Where is James now?” 

“ Gone into the city, to see after his pre- 
cious bargain, and poor father is gone after 
him in a hackney-coach, for he declares he will 
never again set his foot in his own. William 
went with him, as it would have been shock- 
ing to send him alone, and I was not up at the 
time.’.’ 

On hearing this, Emily would have gone to 
her aunt directly, but learnt from a message, 
that she was then endeavouring to seek some 
repose. 

The day passed in dullness and extreme 
solicitude. Mr. Hastings did not return till 
evening, and bore evident marks of recent 
illness and present distress. He sat down 
to tea with his niece and youngest son, but 
Mrs. Hastings did not join them. Tom soon 
after went away, saying he was particularly 
fond of seeing the streets by lamp-light. 
When he was gone, Mrs. Hastings entered : 


INTEGRITV 


6i? 

her looks were haggard and bewildered ; and 
she sat down in perfect silence, as if afraid to 
trust her voice with those inquiries she yet 
most probably was anxious to make, and with 
her eyes bent on the carpet, as if it were alike 
painful to meet either those of Emily or her 
husband. 

After two long melancholy hours, neither 
solaced by confidence nor relieved by complaint, 
they rose, as if mechanically, to separate for 
the night. The want of family-prayer, at a 
time when all seemed so much to need the as- 
sistance it supplicated, — the absence of both 
sons when their parents were in such distress, — 
but above all, the settled melancholy Avhich ap- 
peared to sit upon her aunt’s usually open and 
peaceful countenance — all struck coldness and 
sorrow into the heart of Emily, which were 
even worse to bear than the horrors of the pre- 
ceding evening. 

Conscious that she wanted repose, she soon 
got into bed, but to sleep was yet impossible : 
and one half-hour after another had been mark- 
ed by the novel intimations of the watchman, 
till three, when, just as she sunk into slumber, 
a tap at the door was followed by an entreaty 
in the voice of her uncle, that she would throw 
something on, and come down into the break- 
fast-parlour. 

Emily had a rush-light in her room ; and 
she instantly obeyed the summons, and ran 
down stairs, where she found Mr. Hastings 
who was cording a small portmanteau, and 
o 


70 


INTEGKITV. 


dressed as if for immediate travel, notwith- 
standing his indisposition. 

“ My dear sir, where are you going,” said 
Emily, in evident surprise, which was in- 
creased when he made a sign for her to be 
silent until he should have closed the door, 
and ascertained that no one was stirring who 
could hear him ; when, turning to her, he said, 
in a voice almost inaudible from extreme emo- 
tion. 

“ Emily, — Emily, — you must pardon me for 
this last act of cruelty towards you ; — you are 
already ill with watching and anxiety ; yet I 
cannot go without seeing you, and without en- 
treating forgiveness of injuries which yet I do 
not expect you to grant.” 

“ Dear sir, do not talk of rm ; but tell me, 
for God’s sake, what are you about now ! — I 
think you very unequal to travelling.” 

No, Emily ; I am yet but little turned the 
prime of life ; — I have not the excuse of age 
or inability; — I therefore go a determined 
servant at least to a good cause, and should I 
prove its victim I will not complain. I am 
an unhappy and unworthy member of the 
church of Christ, but I will not further dis- 
honour it ; I will prove at least, that I am 
intentionally honest, and have endeavoured to 
recover that which a worldly and avaricious 
spirit occasioned me to lose. I will go to 
South America first, with this unfortunate 
purchase ; I will then explore the United 
'States ; and it will be hard indeed if I do not. 


INTEGRITY. 


71 


obtain at least a moiety of my property, and 
with that I will be contented — thankful ; for 
it will satisfy every one of my creditors.” 

“ You are in the right,” said Emily ; “ my 
mother would have done the same.” 

“ Thy mother^ child !” said he suddenly 
starting with a look of inexpressible anguish. 

“ Yes ! she always said integrity to man 
what the test of obedience and gratitude to 
ijrod ; that it was the one great law of our 
Divine Master, and the bond which binds us 
all to each other.” 

“ She was right, she was right ; — but listen 
to me, Emily,” cried he, in great agitation, 
grasping her arm, “ You know that we are 
involved, even now, to ruin, which I leave my 
wife, my country, my children, if possible to 
retrieve. You heard James say that I had 
furnished him with certain bonds, securities, 
and mortgages, when he came to London : — 
you remember ?” 

“ I do sir, perfectly, because he wished you 
had continued to refuse him,” 

“ Oh that I had ! — they w'ere merely put 
into his hands, in order to satisfy the most 
pressing of our creditors that we possessed 
actual property to assure them of their safe- 
ty. Alas! in the action itself, to which I 
unwillingly consented, there was deceit, al- 
though it was only intended as the means of 
gaining time ; but he that acts a lie knows not 
the end of his delinquency. The securities 


INTEGRITY . 


SO shown, ail, all were yours, Emily — you know 
what followed.” 

For a moment Emily stood overwhelmed, 
astounded; at length she exclaimed- — 

“ And have I nothing left ? — nothing with 
which to support my aunt ? — nothing to help 
you with when I am of age. Oh ! do not — 
do not leave us to poverty and misery like 
this.” 

Emily was about to sink on her knees to 
entreat, to compel him to remain ; but at the 
very moment her uncle himself sunk a sup- 
pliant before her, crying, “ Forgive me, Emily 
— forgive me.” 

Horror-struck, and cut to the heart, she 
eagerly raised him, and again and again re- 
peated that she did forgive him, and called on 
God to bless him ; but that “ she must not be 
left, she durst not be left. — James was her 
enemy, her object of intolerable terror.” 

“ Tom will soon be of age ; — ^he will protect 
you.” 

Emily, overwhelmed with the rapid occur- 
rences of the last two days, and dreading all 
that lay before her, felt in these words new 
cause for alarm, and, putting her hand- to her 
forehead, sunk back fainting. She was sensi- 
ble of being laid on a sofa, but knew no more 
till she found the housemaid chafing her tem- 
ples, and her aunt, in her dressing-gown, 
leaning over her, and shedding tears that fell 
upon her cheek. 


INTEGRITY. 


7o 


A sense of the still deeper sorrows of this 
dear relative immediately roused Emily from 
contemplation of the future to a sense of pre- 
sent sorrow, and the necessity of assuming 
that fortitude she inwardly prayed for, but 
could not be said to possess ; she instantly 
raised herself, and, clasping the hand of her 
aunt, said tenderly, “ 1 will never leave you, 
dear aunt. I will wait upon you, work for 
you ; doubt not we shall do very well toge- 
ther, — we will support each other.” 

‘‘ We shall be supported by Him, my child, 
whose strength is perfect in weakness, who 
will not break the bruised r^ed, and who 
maketh those ‘who sow in tears to reap in 
joy.’ ” 

But although the pale countenance was 
calm, as it thus uttered the sacred language of 
faith and patience, Emily almost trembled as 
she surveyed the ravages the last day and night 
had made in her person : like the effect of an 
earthquake on the face of nature, when the 
gradual decay of ages is anticipated in a mo- 
ment, so had a few hours done the work of 
years, and all the effects of age and sickness 
appeared, in withering features and a bending 
form ; and that line struck full on Emily’s me- 
mory, as she gazed upon her, 

“ The saint sustained it, but the woman died.' ’ 

In a very few words, each party gave the 
other to understand that they now knew all 


INTEGRITY, 


?4 

the worst. Mrs. Hastings declared, ‘‘ That 
the sufferings of Emily on her entrance into 
life were those alone, which in the whole 
course of her married years, had ever drawn 
from her the language of remonstrance to her 
husband;” an assertion no one who knew her 
could doubt ; — and Emily protested, 

“ That if it were not for seeing her beloved 
relative, her second mother, thus reduced, she 
could bear her own share of suffering firmly.*’ 

It was therefore evident that each would 
comfort and aid the other ; but, alas > both 
were alike strangers to the world around 
them ; both alike unacquainted with the path in 
which necessity and duty alike compelled them 
to enter; and as poor Tom, whose faculties 
seemed absolutely suspended, was not more 
competent to act than themselves, they were 
compelled to remain in the present state of in- 
action, and constant inquietude, till James re- 
turned. It was late in the following evening 
when he entered, and his first question was to 
inquire, “ If the news he heard was true ? — 
Was his father really off? — Could he have 
been so base as to throw all the burden upon 
his shoulders ?” 

“ He is gone to remove the burden from us 
all ; — at least the burden of conscious guilt,” 
said his mother. 

“ And what is to become of you and Emi- 
ly ? — Has he left you any money ?” 

“ Not any: I insisted on his taking all the 
little we had : — how otherwise could he pro- 


INTEGRITY. 


75 


secute so long a v6yage, or travel in a strange 
country? You must sell the carriage and 
horses; remove us to cheap lodgings; and 
put us in a way of living in that state of po- 
verty it is the will of God we should submit 
to.” 

“ And pray,” said Tom, with a deep sigh, 
“ get some kind of a place, that is, some em- 
ployment, for me. I must do something. A 
kind of a clerk's place where it is not confin- 
ing, and where they would not object to San- 
cho and Fury ; there must be plenty of such 
places in London. I would’nt mind taking a 
hundred a year to begin with, brother.” 

“ I dare say you would not, Tom, but many 
people would mind how they gave it you,” re- 
plied James, as with a satirical smile he looked 
towards Emily as if inquiring her thoughts. 

But though she was now calm in her de- 
meanour, no smile could rise to her lips, save 
that of disdain towards him who had over- 
whelmed his respectable family in shame and 
poverty, and most probably brought his fatlier’s 
gray hairs with sorrow to a far distant grave. 
She could not conceive by what sophistry he 
could so far soothe his conscience as to obtain 
effrontery to appear thus easy towards the 
mother he had reduced to poverty ; before her 
also whom he had literally robbed, nor how 
could he dare to sneer at the brother who, but 
for him, might certainly have continued in un- 
blamed possession of the means to enjoy his 
f^ountry pleasures. Her indignation was visi- 


76 


INTEGRITY. , 


ble in her ingenuous countenance; and James, 
who was determined not to offend her, assumed 
a different style of conduct ; lamented the ter- 
rible change that must take place, and pro- 
fessed a desire to do every thing necessary in 
their unhappy situation. 

He was as good as'bis word : with a celeri- 
ty that surprised them all, and a pain that can 
only be conceived by those v;ho have experi- 
enced it, their servants were sent back into the 
country; their carriage and plate disposed of; 
and they were removed to lodgings on the 
Hampstead Road, which, though small, were 
pleasant and convenient. Others were taken 
for Tom, which would enable him to look out 
for the situation which he continually talked of 
procuring; and James protested, ‘‘That he 
could live no where but in the city, where it 
must be the business of his life to run amongst 
the creditors, and soothe them as well as he 
could ; receive the remittances he had a right 
to expect, and apportion them as well as he 
was able. For his own part, he could live on 
a crust. His mother had now a sum equal to 
her wants for a long time, and before it could 
be expended, Tom would be of age, and his 
grandmother’s little legacy of five hundred 
pounds would come in and help on till better 
times arrived.” 

So kind was the conduct of James, so spe- 
cious his manners, and so trifling his personal 
expenses, that Emily gladly restored to him 
the pity and confidence her own nature 


IJiTEGRITY. 


77 

prompted her to accord; but no sooner did 
her ever open countenance bespeak the alter- 
ed feelings of her mind, than he began to ques- 
tion her on the affair that lay nearest his heart ; 
for which purpose he persuaded her to walk 
with him into the fields near Hampstead, and 
when they were at a sufficient distance from 
observation, he began to question her in a 
tone which rose from civil inquiry to insolent 
demand. 

“ Emily, you recollect you took charge of a 
bond for my father ?” 

“ Yes, I did ; for your uncle Charles’s chil- 
dren.” . 

“Children! Fiddlesticks 1— -You took it for 
yourself, as a part of that money which your 
mother ordered to be paid on your twentieth 
birthday.” 

“ I know such money ought to have been 
paid ; but the bond in question was given to me 
expressly to keep for those children. I have 
talked over the matter with my aunt, who is 
exceedingly interested for these poor little crea- 
tures, whose father was a worthy young man, 
I believe, and much to be pitied, and whose 
widow is a very good ” 

“Yes, yes, ’tis all very fine; but in this 
world we must all shift for ourselves. I can’t 
blame you for trying to hold fast what you 
can get : but the fact is, you are not of age — 
you cannot hold it, nor act upon it — it has 
even already injured your character (as an 
honest person) even to think of such a thing; 


78 


INTEGRITY. 


and the sooner it is out of your hands, the 
better: you must give it to me, that I may 
call in the money, and pay it to my father’s 
creditors.” 

“ Indeed, James, I cannot break my vi^ord.” 

“Nonsense; you cannot keep it; ’tis my 
property, not yours, as my father’s partner. I 
tell you, ’twas paid for the sale of my effects, 
and is mine.” 

Then where is the children’s money ?” said 3 
Emily. “ If you will prove to me that is safe, ^ 
I will give it up ; but never till then. I have 
reason, great reason, to blame myself for un- 
dertaking such a trust, young as I am, and 
liable to be blamed ; but I will never give it 
up. I received it with a clean hand, and I 
will hold it with a firm one. My own misfor- 
tunes afford me an awful lesson.” 

Stung with this indirect reproach, James 
now seized her arm with a furious volley of 
oaths, equally dictated by the passion of the 
moment, and the belief that a promise, however 
extorted, would be held sacred by her. Terri- 
fied by words to which she had never been 
subjected, and alarmed from finding herself 
at so great a distance from all road or dwell- 
ing, she intreated him in the most soothing 
manner to be calm, and promised him un- 
bounded submis^sion on any other point. Her 
beauty, her tears, and even her firmness, had 
its proper effect : his anger gave way, but it 
was followed by a passion of grief so over- 
whelming as to render him, (terrible and even 


INTEGRITY. 


79 


hateful as he had lately appeared,) an object of 
the deepest compassion. 

He told her, what she could scarcely doubt, 
that he was looked upon with distrust and 
contempt by all the creditors, as a man who 
had brought ruin on his father, and condemn- 
ed him to undertake those exertions and sub- 
mit to those mortifications which properly be- 
longed to himself; that he was in hourly 
dread of arrests, and even now suffering from 
law expenses, which were daily accumulat- 
ing, and would, if not put a stop to, entirely 
consume all the good effects which might 
arise from his father’s labours ; and that on 
this account alone he sought the possession 
of a property, which, though trifling in itself, 
might check the progress of an evil more ruin- 
ous than all they had encountered, and would 
be the more beneficial, because it would 
prove that they had made no reserve — had 
honestly given up their last shilling. 

“ But surely it is not honest to give up 
that which is not yours — never was yours. I 
must not rob on the highway, even to pay a 
just debt.” 

‘‘ They do not reason thus ; they consider 
it as an act of clemency, shown to a relation, 
prejudicial to them, and therefore dishonest.” 

“ I cannot help that ; it is better for man 
to think me wrong, than God to know me 
wrong. Besides, you know, and they may 
easily know, that my uncle, when he gave 
this bond, was still a man in possession of 


IMTEGHITy. 


ao 

much property. I will keep it, if it were u.t 
the hazard of my life. My word is sacred— 
it is all I have left, and ought to be held in- 
violable.” 

“Well, then. Madam, here we are now, 
but here we will not be long ; one is firm, and 
so shall the other be. How you will answer 
this to my poor mother, is best known to your 
own hard heart.” 

As James spoke, he drew a pistol from his 
pocket, which he loaded, showing, as he did 
so, the bullets he deposited. Emily had been 
too much accustomed to Tom’s fowling-piece, 
to feel the same fears often shown by her sex 
at the bare appearance of this murderous wea- 
pon ; but the words, the glaring eye, the 
trembling yet determined hand, and the ap- 
parent conveniency of the place, which was 
the corner of a field, concealed by high hedge- 
rows, all struck her as fit for a deed of ter- 
ror. The dreadful agitation she experienced 
overcame even her power of crying for help, 
useless as that cry was likely to be ; and she 
struggled to scream with the sensation pro- 
duced by night-mare : her only power was to 
throw herself prostrate on the grass, to hold 
out her hands in supplication, even while she 
averted her eyes from the horrible sight of de- 
termined suicide. 

The agony depicted in her attitude for a 
moment arrested James ; — he removed the 
pistol from the position in which he held it, 
and stooping, he took hold of her with his 


iJSTEGHITV. 


iSl 

left hand, and in a soothing tone of re-assur= 
ance and pity, addressed her with Dear 
Emily, think what you will, I am not the man 
to terrify a woman ; least of all one dear to 
me as a sister — but my distress renders me 
desperate, and your stubbornness has cut me 
to the heart,— collect yourself, speak to me, 
tell me where the bond is, and I will save 
you from breaking your word, by taking it 
away.” 

Emily seemed to speak, but her voice was 
utterly inaudible ; but the mournful shaking of 
her head, and the effort she fruitlessly madp to 
snatch the pistol, indicated refusal — in another 
instant it was fired. 

Emily sunk with her face to the ground; 
but she did not faint, she was not so happy as 
to become quite insensible, but she felt as if 
struck with a pang beyond that of death, which 
was, however, somewhat relieved by hearing 
the voice of James, uttering a low and indis- 
tinct curse, and this was immediately followed 
by a loud hollo, and the sound of feet clamber- 
ing over a gate. 

Emily raised her head, and saw James 
wrapping his handkerchief round his hand, 
which bled profusely- In a moment two men, 
whom she recollected as having passed twice 
on the road, came up; one of them raised 
her, and the other immediately took up the 
pistol which was on the grass, and then with- 
out ceremony began to search on the person 
of James for the other. 


82 


IJNTEGRITl. 


“ Let me alone, fellow ; I have no other 
weapon.” 

“That’s my look out, sir; for you are my 
prisoner! we had an eye on you pretty well 
all along, but being wi’ a lady, you see, as I 
scorns to do any thing as is ungent^el, if so be 
as you’d behaved proper. I’d ha sin you home 
first ; as it is, I think she’s quite as well with- 
out your company: — pistols, and blood, an 
them there things, ben’t fit for no oman, ’spe- 
cially poor young craters like miss.” 

James looked at Emily, as if to appeal to 
her memory, that he had only spoken the truth 
in declaring his distress ; and the paleness and 
distraction of his countenance had its full effect 
in awakening compassion, which increased in 
proportion as her fears vanished, or rather ex- 
changed their object. She endeavoured to 
speak a few broken words of comfort, and to 
persuade the men to let him at least return 
home for the purpose of having his hand ex- 
amined. This they refused, saying, “ the gem- 
man would have every attention in the place, 
where he might be accommodated for the 
night;” and they offered to go back and take 
care of her to the Hampstead road, where 
they placed her in a coach, proposing to step 
into a public house with their prisoner, for the 
purpose of giving him the means of staunching 
the blood, which continued to flow from his 
wounded hand. 


INTEGRITY. 


8 .“^ 


CHAPTER Vll. 

In mentionins^ the circumstance of James’s 
arrest, Emily fully accounted to the alarmed 
mother for all the marks of recent terror and 
remaining trepidation which she exhibited ; 
for of all other evils, that of imprisonment 
was, to the conception of poor Mrs. Hastings, 
the most deplorable ; because she considered 
it as reducing a man to the rank of the wick- 
ed, and compelling him to associate with them. 
Poverty and pain she held as the inflictions of 
Heaven, and she could willingly submit to the 
one, and endure the other; but imprisonment 
she considered the punishment of one frail 
and erring creature over another, at which 
even resignation revolted, and it was ever the 
prayer of her heart, “ Let me fall into the 
hands of God, but not into the hands of man.” 

Under this view of the subject, added to all 
the natural tenderness of a mother for her 
first-born, it was no wonder that she should 
eagerly propose to liberate James by the 
sacrifice of the money, which she possessed 
from the sale of their effects, and which it is 
but justice to say, he had paid faithfully into 
her hands, with the reserve of a trifling sum 
for his own wants, and a similar provision for 
the more extensive demands of Tom. When 


M INTEGRITY. 

this point was considered of, among the three 
persons who might be justly deemed alike in- 
terested in the affair, not one could prevail on 
themselves to negative it. The mother, although 
far more experienced, thought only on the suf- 
ferings of her son, which she judged of by a 
felse estimate. Tom, ever sanguine, hoped to 
get a situation soon, and, besides, was at once 
too generous to refuse, and too thoughtless to 
foresee ; and Emily was too much affected by 
the dreadful scene she had endured, to b^ ca- 
pable of weighing the case in her mind, and 
having at such a terrible hazard been firm in 
refusing him what she deemed the property of 
another, was little inclined to add to his afflic- 
tions, by withholding what she might considm: 
in some measure her own. It was therefore 
speedily concluded, that Tom should proceed 
to the place of James’s temporary confine- 
ment, and relieve his mind by an assurance of 
speedy release. 

To the surprise of the younger brother, 
James for some time peremptorily refused to 
comply with their wishes for his emancipation ; 
he professed an intention of removing into 
the jail at Newgate, where he should at least 
be safe, since the numerous writs which he 
knew to be out against him, would not fail 
eventually to place him there, and said, “ that 
to take tlie money which was the sole support 
of the family to satisfy one demand, and that 
a trifling one, was subjecting them to misery 
without answering any efficient purpose he 


INTEGRITY* 


85 


added, “ You and I, Tom, know very well, 
that with all my father’s sanctity and all that, 
he was a constant tyrant to my mother till 
the time that his troubles pulled him down 
— his temper was a sort of perpetual blister, 
pulling both day and night; and the relief 
she has now from that, makes her endure all 
other things like an angel in her manners : 
but it is evident that she is sadly brought 
down already for want of the comforts of 
life : — if I take this money, it will be literally 
taking her bread, the staff -of life.” 

“ But if you go to jail you will take life it- 
self. J am sure the very name of Newgate is 
enough to kill her; the idea that any one of 
o ur family should go there is enough to do it : 
— if you saw how ill both she and Emily are, 
James, you — ” 

“ III ! aye, 1 have injured Emily beyond 
what you, or even she, can conceive. I will 
never, never ^ see her again ; but I have a 
panacea for some of her sorrows in store, — 
perhaps for others. Well! I will go out 
though it will take a round sum, better than 
three hundred, and then I shall want the 
means of flight, for I shall instantly depart for 
Liverpool or Bristol, from whence alone I can 
look for comfort, and where I can probably do 
some good.” 

That’s right,” cried Tom, eagerly pro- 
ducing the money, and adding, as with alacri- 
ty he counted out the bills, “ in two months 

H'? 


86 


INTE^KITY. 


I shall be of age, and get my grandmother’s 
legacy, and then we shall all have plenty.” 

James shook his head and wiped his eyes, 
as he looked on the open countenance and 
free action of the artless lad, whose fine per- 
son and glowing complexion were already 
withering beneath the ungenial breath of Lon- 
don, and of Care; which, though it found no 
resting place in his buoyant and inconsiderate 
mind, yet paid many visits there through the 
medium of his affections. 

“ When you are of age, said James, after a 
pause, “ you will indeed have a little money ; 
and I am certain you will apply it to the best 
purpose ; but remember' it is but a trifle ; 
therefore do not abate for an hour your en- 
deavour to obtain a situation ; still less, allow 
yourself to think of Emily as a wife. The 
injury she has sustained, the sorrows she has, 
and must continue to endure, are more than 
sufficient.” 

“ Surely you don’t think / should add to 
her sorrow ? I, who have loved her all my 
life, and was always told both by you and my 
father, that I was to marry her as soon as she 
had forgotten young Tracy.” 

‘‘ But she has not forgotten him — she ne- 
ver will forget him,” said James in great agi- 
tation. 

“ ’Tis two years since she heard from him, 
and more than that a great deal, since she 
saw him ; and I am sure she has' had trouble 


INTEGfilTY. 


87 


enough to put him out of her head ten times 
over since then : for instance, when I first 
sold Fury, I felt quite lost, and thought of it 
continually ; hut so many other things have 
come across me, I never think of her now, 
but am quite as happy with only Sancho j 
and the two capital creatutes I left in the 
country scarcely ever come into my head « 
it is not in my nature to fret long after any 
thing I really believe.” 

“ So do I ; therefore T hope you won’t fret 
after Emily, and especially that you won’t 
tease her, since she has the good sense to 
know it is impossible for you to live on love, 
and therefore you must not marry until my fa- 
ther’s return — no ! not even on the strength of 
your legacy — not even if my mother should be 
weak enough to second your wishes.” 

“ That is very hard ; for haven’t I bottled 
up all I could have said about it these two 
years, just because I wasn't of age forsooth ? 
and now when I am on the very point of it, 
you come out with ‘ musn’t do this, musn’t 
say that.’ I am here in a strange place, with 
nobody else to love or to speak to, and it is 
quite natural I should say something to a girl 
so pretty, and so good, and my own cousin 
too.” 

“ Say what you please, but do not even 
think of marrying ; the sacrifice will not hurt 
you mtick^ but it would rend your heart to 
see Emily and her babe in poverty and sick- 
ness; besides, though you like Emily very 


INTEGRITY. 


m 

much, yet, after all, you do not love her as she 
ought to be loved, and — ” 

“ I love her too well to cheat her ^ — to ruin 
her,” cried Tom, his eyes flashing fire, be- 
neath which for a moment his elder brother 
shrunk ; but the habitual command of James, 
and the real good temper and general ac- 
knowledgement of his power, practised by 
Tom, added to his humanity (strongly ex- 
cited for the situation of one to whom all the 
fiimily were wont to look up) soon reconciled 
them. 

James soon removed the bars to his con- 
finement, but not without a long cavil with 
the bailiff, as to his personal charges, which 
he canvassed with that close attention to 
pence^ so frequently observable in those who 
hazard pounds without regret, and in their 
attention to petty savings, indemnify their 
conscmnces for risking the property of them- 
selves and others. With the assistance of 
his brother, he proceeded immediately to the 
inn, where, in spite of every remonstrance, 
he placed himself on the outside of a Man- 
chester coach, although the state of his wound- 
ed hand was such as to render such travelling 
exceedingly dangerous and painful. 

There was in this greatly errin^r man the 
materials for a great and even worthy cha- 
racter, of much higher stamina, and by no 
means worse propensities than poor Tom ; 
James, like him, was lost for want of the due 
cultivation of his morals and his mind : each 


INTEGRITY. 


69 


wanted a friend in a parent, wise to indulge, 
and powerful to restrain, — neither had found 
it 

Emily and her aunt were alike relieved when 
they found that James was liberated and re- 
moved ; the pother rejoiced in what she deem- 
ed his safety, and her niece might be said to 
rejoice in her own, for so terrible was the re- 
membrance of the scene she had suffered, that 
it had reduced her to the most pitiable state of 
nervous sensibility, and the very idea of ever 
seeing him again distressed her: but alas! 
from this time poverty made rapid strides, and 
want in all its horrors assailed them, whilst 
tJiey were only calculating in trembling solici- 
tude on its approach. 

Condemned early in her married life to be a 
mere cypher in her family, and forbidden to car- 
ry even her maternal cares beyond those of an 
upper servant, Mrs. Hastings had found in 
the abstraction of her devotional exercises, em- 
ployment for a sublime imaginative mind ; and 
in the various charities she practised, perpetual 
means of keeping in play the invention and 
knowledge necessary for effecting her benevo- 
lent purposes. Hence, though a very contem- 
plative, yet she was not an idle woman ; she 
had the practice of Lydia “ in making gar- 
ments for^the poor,” and a considerable por- 
tion of that also which belongs to cheap cook- 
ery ; and at this time she found all the advan- 
tage of her knowledge, in managing her own 
scanty finances. 


INTEGRITY. 


But alas! neither her piety, nor the cares 
of her niece, could so far control the natural 
effects of the dreadful change she experienced, 
and the acute, though suppressed, sorrow she 
felt, from taking its common course on the 
constitution when it has turned the meridian of 
life ; she became ill, and, after a fruitless strug- 
gle, was obliged to yield, and permit medical 
assistance, and the purchase of food more con- 
genial to her habits, and suitable for her com- 
plaints. 

At this juncture, Emily could not help re- 
gretting that entire seclusion from all her un- 
cle’s city connections, which had hitherto been 
their single consolation. The greatest part, it 
is true, were probably creditors ; but since ma- 
ny even of these had done business with him 
for many years, and were well aware for how 
long a period he had merited their respect, 
as many others were united with him by the 
still stronger ties of similar profession in re- 
ligion, there could be little doubt but they 
would have accorded to his bereaved wife pro- 
tection and assistance during his long ab- 
sence ; and when she remembered many had 
eaten of his bread, and shared the many con- 
veniences of his once plentiful mansion, that 
might perhaps be even then near to them, and 
most willing to help them, the sense of their 
own blameable timidity pressed heavy on her 
heart. It was, however, in vain to regret ; 
for she was a stranger to all firms, and all 
streets, and without James, there was no one 


INTEGRITY. 


91 


laat could be visited or addressed ; for Tom 
knew no one beyond the direction of a parcel 
of game. 

As soon as Mrs. Hastings was capable of 
removal, they now became the inhabitants of a 
single room in Charlton Street, with the hope 
that in London plain-sewing might at least be 
procured ; and Emily hoped also to dispose of 
th.e contents of her port-folio, which was abun- 
dantly stocked with views of the country they 
had left ; for as it was seldom that her uncle 
permitted music, drawing had been her princi- 
pal employment, and one in which she had 
made great progress. 

The hope of procuring sewing having been 
soon quashed from the mistress of the house, 
who assured them, “ that all the sempstresses 
she knew were ruined by the charity-schools,” 
this resource was rendered the more import- 
ant ; and Emily, on Tom’s arrival, eagerly be- 
sought him to take the port-folio and endeavour 
to dispose of the contents. 

“Me carry this thing like old Woodridge 
the drawing master, through London streets! 
Dear Emily, I could die first ! I would as 
soon turn tinker, and stop with my wheel at 
every old woman’s door, crying ‘ kettles to 
mend! knives to grind!’ What would people 
think ?” 

“They would pay you the compliment to 
think you an artist; there are many in London 
who carry such things every day.” 

“ Why, it is true I have seen them : but 


INTE&RITI. 




never any tall, stout fellows like me : besides, 
what could I say? I knaw no more of the 
things inside, than the Pope of Rome ; no, don’t 
ask me to do this, — I would sell Sancho ra- 
ther than that.” 

It is ever thus, my dear cousin, with you ; 
every day you are determined to do something, 
but that which you will do, or can do, never 
arrives : but I will say no more ; I shall go my- 
self, for I must have some chocolate before my 
aunt awakes, and you know I have nothing left 
to dispose of.” 

Emily, recruited perhaps by the little an- 
ger thus raised, set out ; and Tom, not to be 
behind with her in exertion, actually went into 
Holborn, and sold his darling Sancho ; when 
they met again though each was suffering, 
and especially Tom, yet the consciousness of 
having done well, and procured relief for her 
who was alike the object of their tenderness, 
irradiated their countenances, and Emily was 
even eloquent in her praise of the resolution 
Tom had evinced, which she observed, “ was 
but the prelude to higher exertions, she was 
certain.” 

“ Thank you, Emily, thank you ; this is the 
first time I was ever praised in my own 
family ; — out of it I have had more than 
enough, but that was for keeping dogs, not 
parting with them : had I had less praise for 
being a good shot, I should have deserved 
more for being a good son ; or if my father 
would have allowed me any merit for my 


INTEGRITY. 


93 


obedience, why then I would with pleasure 
have extended it : but no ; do what I would, 
good or bad, a long speech about corrupt na- 
ture was the end of every thing, followed by 
a groan that seemed to blow me away from 
him as if I were a noxious insect or a venom- 
ous reptile.” 

“Don’t say so; your father was very ge- 
nerous to you.” 

“ True ; he gave me a purse full of money, 
and strict orders never to spend it in the only 
way I liked : — that is well thought on ; now, 
Emily, I’ll treat you to the play ; since James 
went I have been three times, and, poor as 
we are, I have a right to take you with my 
Sancho’s money.” 

This was however declined, for though 
Enriily would have liked to see a play in Lon- 
don, she could not bring herself to leave her 
aunt, especially when, on rising, she learnt 
how tenderly her beloved children had been 
acting : nor did she withhold praise of her 
son, and what was even dearer to him, of the 
animal from which he had torn himself, and 
concerning whose future fate he could not 
forbear to torment himself with increasing 
solicitude till evening, when he retired to 
comfort or forget his anxiety by seeing the 
latter part of the play. 

A few more drawings w^ere sold, and with 
other aids from the wardrobe of the ladies, put 
on the time, until Tom arrived at the period 
when he could, according to his own conclu- 

T* 


INTEGRITY* 


y4 

sion, demand his legacy ; but, to his extreme 
disappointment, he was informed that some 
litigation having arisen respecting the pro- 
perty of the testator, the payment of all lega- 
cies was suspended, and it was uncertain 
when it would be received. 

As the drowning man, when deprived of ail 
hope from a probable succour, grasps eagerly 
at the slightest reed, so intensely had the 
family clung to this wreck, that the shock 
received by this information was scarcely less 
severe than that which deprived them of their 
all ; and it was increased on receiving a most 
melancholy, though extremely short, letter 
from James, informing them “ that, after 
suffering in the most dreadful manner from 
the wound in his hand, he was at last obliged 
to submit to amputation, and beseeching Tom 
to furnish him with the means of defraying 
his expenses, as by this time he would doubt- 
less have obtained them.” 

This letter being happily addressed to the 
young man, the poor mother was spared her 
share of the affliction it was so calculated to 
awaken, and Emily eagerly concerted how 
best to relieve the distress without consulting 
her, and thereby leading her to make inqui- 
ries as to the cause which it would be diffi- 
cult to answer, and impossible to reveal. One 
only, one dear invaluable treasure remained 
to Emily—the gold repeater of her mother, 
which she had long determined never to part 
with : she laid it down upon the table, and. 


INTEGRITY. 95 

looking at Tom, observed, “ I have now no 
other way — take this, and try to sell it.*’ 

Tom instinctively took out his own ; it was 
a silver hunting- watch, and of an ordinary 
description, and, whilst he compared the two, 
and truly asserted that he could get nothing 
for his own worth sending to his brother, 
they were interrupted by the person with 
whom they had formerly lodged, who brought 
a letter for Emily, which being, she said, a 
double one, she did not choose either to re- 
turn to the postman or send by any other mes- 
senger. 

In eager haste Emily opened the letter, 
whilst her cousin paid for it, and almost 
started at the sight of two bills, but the name 
of Stanton at the bottom of the short letter, 
which announced them as the interest money 
he was indebted to her, instantly checked the 
flutter of joy which was throbbing at her 
heart, and she suddenly thrust them out of 
her sight, and urged Tom to expedition in 
his painful errand. As soon as he was gone, 
she procured a sheet of paper and, with a 
hand nearly illegible from trepidation, wrote 
a letter, inclosing them to the widow, which 
she immediately carried herself to the post- 
oflice, not allowing herself, as it were, a mo- 
ment’s breathing time ere she had removed 
the temptation of retaining them from her 
sight, being anxious to save others from ex- 
periencing the agonising sensation which pos- 


INTEGRITY. 


lf6 

sessed her own bosom during an hour so cri- 
tical. 

She had just hurried through this painful 
business, and was weeping through the flutter 
of her spirits, and the gratitude of her heart to 
that God whom she felt as her especial pre- 
server, when Tom returned : he had sold the 
watch — he had revolved the situation of his 
brother, and earnestly desired to carry him re- 
lief ; but he confessed that he had also had the 
offer of some employment, which, in their pre- 
sent sad state, it was desirable he should ac- 
cept, and which would inevitably be given to 
another if not instantly accepted. 

“ Then, for heaven’s sake take it.” cried 
Emily ; “ and I will add the expenses of your 
journey to the money I intended for James, 
and which will do him more good than seeing 
you could possibly do : you know he has many 
friends about him, and they will surely assist 
him.” 

Her advice was taken, her gift despatched ; 
after which she mentioned so much of the 
transactions of the day as were necessary to 
her aunt, who warmly approved her conduct, 
spoke with confidence of the relief which 
God in his providence would not fail soon 
to provide, and declared she was herself so 
much better as to be capable of undertaking 
any thing in her power ; and in the calm 
complacency she displayed, the exalted faith 
"and holy resignation with which she seemed 


INTEGRITV. 97 

endued from above, Emily felt her own spirits 
composed, and her strength revived. 

But, alas! though Tom secured his em- 
ployment, as it was only for a few hours in 
the day, it was only help, and not subsistence ; 
and it required a decent appearance, — made 
with great difficulty in the present state of 
his wardrobe. The talents, and even the 
incessant toil of Emily, could ill supply the 
bare necessities demanded by the family, 
even when she was able to part with her 
productions ; ^but in her great anxiety to do 
much, she ceased to do justice to her own 
pouters : and to her bitter grief, the honest, 
generous efforts of her love and industry, 
failed in their object ; and after many days of 
incessant toil, she was unable to sell a single 
drawing. 

Returning with lingering steps to her 
wretched abode, she sat down with an ex- 
pression of hopeless dejection on her counte- 
nance, which indicated that stupor of sorrow 
which is the prelude either to sickness or in- 
sanity ; and she felt as if the powers of body 
and mind were alike failing her ; and in reply 
to the tender inquiries of her aunt, she could 
only look towards the folio, shake her head, 
and observe, “ They are all there, — eveiw one 
oY them.” 

“But they will not be there always, my 
child ; — besides, though the almond-tree 
cease to flourish, and the olive-tree fail, we 


INTEGRITY. 


db 

will still trust in Him in whose hands are the 
issues of life.” 

Dear aunt, I have not your faith : I dare 
not hope for a miracle in my favour ; but I will 
make one,— -one effort more ; I will write to 
some of your old neighbours. How many of 
them ‘ have bread and to spare,’ who owe it all 
to you ! Since working will not help me, beg- 
ging perhaps may.” 

‘‘Rather, my dear, write to your father’s 
brother, for he is very rich, and owes it to that 
father’s forbearance. How singular it seems 
that we should never have thought of this be- 
fore ! I believe it is the immediate suggestion 
of the divine Spirit in this our extreme distress. 
Write, my love^ instantly.” 

Emily rose, but her head swam. She had 
taken no food that morning, and it Was now 
high noon, — the last cup of coffee in tlie house 
had been carried by her to her aunt, before 
she set out on her sad and fruitless expedi- 
tion. She had no money, and was three weeks 
in arrear for her lodgings ; and the mistress 
of the house, who kept a little chandler’s 
shop, had already told her by looks, but too 
intelligent, that she must not lengthen her 
account, and commented in no pleasant tones 
on the sick looks of the old lady, and the 
“ wickedness of pretending to be better, and 
all the time looking like dead corpses ; or, 
very like, really dying in honest people’s 
houses, and bringing trouble upon them ;” so 
that she durst not encounter her even to ask 


INTEGRITY 

lor one of the stale loaves which decorated her 
dirty window. 

The voice of this person on the stairs in no 
pleasant tone completed the overthrow of Eini- 
ly, who sunk shivering into the nearest chair, 
as the landlady burst into the room .with a 
weighty hamper in her arms ; crving, “ Here’s 
a pretty concern, truly I If he as brings it 
has’nt the impurence to ax three shillings and 
four pence, ven all the time there’s carriage 
paid written on the lid !” 

“ It have gone to Bedford Square, and then 
up to Hampstead road,” bawled a rough voice 
behind her. 

‘‘ It is all right ; give tlie man his money, 
and I will pay you thankfully,” said Mrs. 
Hastings. 

The woman was about to exclaim more ve- 
hemently against “some folk’s a.isurance,” but 
a glance at the hamper re-assured her ; and 
she complied with the request, returning down 
stairs for that purpose. 

The moment the door was closed, Mrs. 
Hastings fell upon her knees, and in a strain 
of devout thanksgiving, praised God for a gift 
which she received as immediately sent by him, 
—as the manna that fell from heaven to nour- 
ish his famishing people. 

Emily at this moment saw all around her 
as one but half awake, and incapable of as- 
sisting the feeble but active relative; who 
now exerted herself to unpack the contents, 
and sunk from the rapturous gratitude of 


100 


IKTEGRITl. 


\ 

adoration to a sense of the sweet and simple 
thankfulness of a tender heart, as she perused 
the following sheet which lay open at the 
top : — 


“ Ontcerred Madam, 

“We hops you will pleese to except a bas- 
kett of Crismas cheer, as all yere pore ni- 
burs as bin proud to put in : theer fouls is of 
the breed you givd Sally Johnson, and the 
pork is your own pig to John Benson, and the 
butter is wife’s churning from the brown cow 
as you remember when she was a calf ; also, 
becase they say coles is dere in London, we 
sends some shooting stockings for Mr. Tum- 
mus, seeing as how the Lord has removed the 
rest of the famley to forrin parts, a.s we hears ; 
and also socks fbr you an Miss. We don’t 
go for to deny we have hard bad news enuff, 
and many’s the time we all wish ym was 
down among us, while the squire is away, as 
a clean corner and a kind hart would be a 
comfort even to a grand lady so humbel as you ; 
and we hops you will pardon us, seein we 
meen no offens, in that stockin foot as is at the 
bottom, also the written buks that you lent 
Mrs. Allen, who is departed in great peace, 
and loved you to the last as a dere sister. 
The likes of you we never must hop to see, no 
blame to those that follow. The times is not 
so dere, and trade is pretty good, so that 
pleese to send again for things, if so be this is 
agreehel. 


INTEGRITY. 


101 


It was Nelly that did the cap same as Miss 
taught her, and she and all of us send our 
duty to you and Miss, and Mr. Tummus — 
God bless his hansom face, and turn him in 
the right road, in such a wicked place as 
Lonon is. Every on o the childer will needs 
put summut in, thof it be but holly berries ; 
pleese to excuse them same as you used to do. 
Nancy Haskihs as got a fine boy, and calls it 
.Tames ; but she had no codie this time. Old 
John is creaking yet, but he sticks to the 
stuff you givd him, and has sent you two cab- 
bage nets ; so no more my dere mistress that 
we all pray for constantly, I ham your most 
dutiful sarvant to command. 

Jonas Tims.” 

When Emily had swallowed a little cowslip 
wine and a mouthful of seed-cake taken from 
the hamper, she* too could read the letter and 
weep over it; again open her eyes to life, 
dreary as the prospect was, and say, “that 
while it produces one act of genuine love, one 
tie that links us to our kind, its evils may be 
endured.” 

Tom, of wlmm they saw very little of late, 
fortunately came in at this moment and par- 
took the exquisite pleasure they experienced 
in a double sense, from this humble, but use- 
ful proof of gratitude and attachment, in those 
lowly neighbours, amongst whom the holiday / 
hours of his boyhood had passed. With all 
the eagerness of curiosity, he rummaged 


102 


INTEGRITY . 


among the straw, and having dislodged fowls, 
pork, bacon, butter, stockings, and oatcakes, 
at length reached the depository spoken of; 
which contained, in many shillings and six- 
pences, and a few half-crowns, between two 
and three pounds, supposed undoubtedly to 
be the means of removing Mrs. Hastings from 
London to her own country. 

As Tom emptied this treasure into his mo- 
ther’s lap, and Emily felt in it the full value 
of that pure affection which had dictated the 
joint collection of many weeks, and the pro- 
duct of many a toilsome hour ; when she 
looked at the tranquil, but withered face, 
whose fine features, at fifty bore the lines of 
threescore and ten, she could not forbear to 
wish that she were indeed with the humble 
friends of her past days, especially as it would 
place her in the way of many who had pro- 
bably not less the will, and infinitely more 
the power to benefit her, and were probably 
now suffering pain in abstaining from the of- 
fers of friendship her case demanded, but her 
delicacy, had hitherto shrunk from. Whilst 
these thoughts were passing in her mind, 
Mrs. Hastings was herself eagerly employed 
in examining the manuscript written by her- 
self and lent to a sickly person in her vicinity, 
many years before, and which she now looked 
over with an avidity that proved it an object 
of unusual interest ; and when at length they 
called her attention to the power of her re- 
moval. she immediately answered, “ that al 


iNTEGIilTY. 


103 


though her poor old neighbours’ kind offer was 
indeed a cordial to her heart, yet she should 
not for a moment think of laying ^uch a bur- 
den upon them ; in fact, she would rather die 
with Emily than live any where without her;” 
and on perceiving a tear in Emily’s eye on this 
declaration, added with a pmile, “ I really think 
I have discovered in this the means of helping 
us all. — I will turn author and publish it — wish 
me success, — or rather, ask for it from Him 
who alone can prosper it.” * 

Emily replied by a faint smile, and a tender 
pressure of the hand, and then proposed imme- 
diately to pay for their lodgings — after which 
she would cook some of the meat for dinner 
they all required. 

Tom protested that he would do both, and 
he was as good as his word ; for he perceived 
the extreme debility to which Emily was re- 
duced ; and although it was true, as James had 
asserted, “ that he could not love her as she 
deserved to be loved,” nor even perhaps as he, 
with his deficient perceptions, was capable of 
loving, yet it was certain that he bore towards 
her a kind and tender heart, and a perfectness 
of esteem which admitted no increase. 

In the course of their meal he informed 
them that he now lodged with a decent woman 
in Westminster, who had a chamber to spare, 
which enjoyed the extraordinary merit of 
looking into the green fields, and could not 
fail to be far better for them both than their 
pre'jent abode, Mrs Hastings scarcely suf 


104 


INTJEGUITL". 


fered him to proceed, before she expressea 
a desire to go thither, saying, “ that in the 
calmness of the country she could revise her 
work, and render it, she trusted, really valu- 
able ; and even poor Emily, whose pride of 
usefulness had been so grievously mortified 
in the morning, thought that with something 
like the view of nature before her, though it 
was yet winter, she should again be able to 
draw to a good purpose. Both parties were 
still further led to adopt the change, because 
they learnt that the house was occupied by 
an old man, whose worthy daughter assisted 
him in maintaining two orphan grandcliil- 
dren, to whom their little aid would be ser- 
viceable. 

Again, therefore, they removed, and to a 
lodging in appearance more humble than the, 
last ; but it had the cleanliness and quietness 
so soothing to the aching head and harassed 
heart, and was more especially valued by Mrs. 
Hastings, as promising Tom’s society, which, 
though singularly uncongenial with her own, 
was rendered, by the happy alchemy of mater- 
nal love, always inoffensive, and frequently 
amusing to her. 

In fact, she was so truly “ in charity with 
all men,” that however rigid in her observ- 
ance of the strictest self-discipline and self- 
renunciation, she yet never exacted from an- 
other the same measure she meted to herself; 
ever conceiving and allowing, that there are, 
in the various pursuits of various charac- 


iJiTEGRITY. 


ters, so many distinct perceptions of what is 
good and evil, that except in positive crimes, 
and exemplary virtues, it is difficult for one 
man to judge for another. A pitying observa- 
tion, a hope of future amendment, a silent 
prayer for the offender, was all she uttered 
relative to those errors in her brethren which 
were evident — imputed ones she never lis- 
tened to: when forced upon her, tliey raised' 
the only hectic anger could kindle on her 
cheek ; and she would then indignantly ex- 
claim, “ Who art thou, that judgest thy neigh- 
bour ? to his own master he standeth or fall- 
eth.” 

It was now the period when letters might 
be expected from Mr. Hastings ; and but for 
the solicitude with w^hich they were desired, 
our poor and humble family might have sat 
down to their slender portion, viuth some 
what of that cheerfulness which to a certain 
degree all of them assumed. The employ- 
ment of poor Tom was connected with a 
neighbouring wharf, and for a short time he 
brought his little earnings to his mother with 
great pleasure ; but unhappily he gained 
companions who encroached upon his time 
and his profits, for having no taste for intel- 
lectual pursuits, he could not spend his lei- 
suret with women ; and it was a real disad- 
vantage, that he was no longer compelled to 
walk a long way to pay the tribute his affec- 
tion demanded. Emily saw with deep con- 
cern that the simplicity of his heart and man- 


106 


INTEGEITY. 


ners received a taint from the people with 
whom he perhaps inevitably associated, and 
she dreaded lest poverty sliould become the 
parent of that infamy which is its only indeli- 
ble stain. There were moments when she 
could have wept over him, have entreated him 
^vith all the fondness of the tenderest sister to 
guard himself ; but there was a new expression 
in his eye which restrained her — she felt that 
her intentions would be mistaken, her fears ri- 
diculed, and she forbore to provoke the anger 
which might insult, or the love which might 
annoy her ; but the consciousness of her own 
helpless dependence ceased not a moment to 
harass her. In pursuing the means of miti- 
gating their poverty by incessant and various 
exertion, she alone obtained any respite from 
her sense of present difficulties and future dis- 
tress. 

Whilst Emily now plied alternately, the 
needle or the pencil, for their support, Mrs. 
Hastings, with not less diligence, revised and 
re-wrote the manuscript of which we spoke, 
finding, like every one engaging in similar 
pursuit, some sentence which could be 
amended, or some conclusion which might 
be strengthened ; and as the work w’as less 
a literary effort than a conscientious endea- 
vour to do good, yet pursued by a discrimi- 
nating taste as well as a religion mind, it 
was ho wonder that even with much and anx- 
ious labour, little was comparatively effected, 
and that the reading of the evening only pre- 


INTEGRITY. 


107 


pared for the new occupation of the following 
morning. 

So long as Emily could procure the slender 
portion of food they required, and the more 
substantial breakfast for Tom, with those 
little aids of medicine still necessary for her 
aunt, she cared not how long' this occupation 
lasted, since it absorbed the mind of Mrs. 
Hastings much, and rendered the long ab- 
sences of her son unheeded ; but as the pe- 
riod approached when their little rent must 
be paid, she began to cast an anxious eye to- 
wards it, especially when the arrival of a for- 
eign letter with a great accumulation of post- 
ages drew the last sixpence from the general 
purse. 

This letter satisfied the family of the person- 
al safety of its head ; but having been written 
a long time was not able to give any account 
of his success, further than the hope tha'He 
should find a market for his goods in the dis- 
trict whither he was hastening. 

Thankful even for this, Mrs. Hastings now 
really closed her labours ; and notwithstand- 
ing her natural modesty and real humility, ven- 
tured to predict that it would soon answer in 
every sense a most beneficial purpose, if either 
of her dear childrep woufd dispose of the MSS., 
which she had understood might be soon done 
-in the city.” / 

Emily had be^n long aware that this task 
must devolve uphn her ; and though she felt it 
to be a hard on^, she was conscious that it was 


IHTEGEITI. 


iOlj 

much easier to present the works of etnother 
than her own, to which nothing less than the 
extreme of want could have driven her in the 
first instance. The same circumstances again 
operated ; and when she looked at the calm, 
sweet countenance of her aunt, or listened to 
the returning cough and short breathings 
which indicated disease, (never complained 
of, but evidently felt) so far from speaking of 
reluctance to obey her wishes, Emily felt as 
if no enterprise was too great for her to un- 
dertake, no suffering too acute for her to bear, 
in such a cause. Having, therefore, arranged 
all her little wants, provided her medicines, 
and desired one of the children of the family 
to attend hpon her — after twice returning to 
take, and give a farewell kiss, and hear the 
‘“^God speed\ you, my love,” which was ever, 
with her, accompanied with that fervent as- 
piration of faith, which indeed lifts the soul to 
heaven to receive a present blessing, she bent 
her steps, in anxious expectation, to the prin- 
cipal house in the great emporium of literary 
merchandise. 

Emily bore her walk pretty well, consider- 
ing the close confinement and unequal sus- 
tenance to which she had been long confined ; 
but when she actually entered the open door, 
and addressed the first person she saw, her 
heart throbbed so violently that she could 
scarcely be understood, and it was most happy 
for her that she was conducted to an inner 
room, furnished with a seat, and left alone 


INTEGRITY. 


100 


ibr some time, during which the object of her 
errand was placed in the hands of one of the 
partners of the house. 

After a short period of most welcome soli- 
tude and recomposure, this gentleman appear- 
ed ; and in the suavity, and even kindness of 
his manners, made her some atonement for the 
disappointment of learning that the produc- 
tion in question did not suit him, as not being 
of a description usually published by that 
house. 

Emily considered the last words as being 
used for the purpose of softening refusal, — the 
courtesy this implied, encouraged her to in- 
quire, “ if he would have the goodness to men- 
tion any person likely to purchase it.” 

“ The very respectable house of in 

Piccadilly, I should think very likely.” 

Emily, with a silent courtesy, departed. She 
knew Piccadilly was a long way from thence, 
and she was already dreadfully wearied ; but 
as she recollected seeing the name of the very 
person mentioned in conjunction with nume- 
rous charities, and recollected how often in 
better days she had heard it mentioned by the 
visitants at her uncle’s, her spirits gained a 
spring by feeling as if she could scarcely fail 
to find a friend, who would be the means of 
certain relief to a person situated like Mrs. 
Hastings, who united to those wants which are 
the first recommendations to humanity that 
character which renders her offices doubly de- 
lightful. 


liu 


I.NTEGKITY'. 


But SO long and wearisome was this journey 
that she was compelled to take a considerable 
rest upon the road at the house in Rathbone 
Place where she had been wont to dispose of 
her drawings, and where she looked so poorly 
that she was advised to return home immediately; 
but as she was still far from home, and a little 
circuit would accomplish her object, though it 
was now growing dark, she persisted in going 
to Piccadilly. 

Being now passed the usual hours of busi- 
ness, she learnt that the principal was gone in- 
to the country, but the title pages and a little 
of the matter w'ere scanned over by the young 
person to whom she spoke with an approving 
eye ; and he observed, “ that if it could be ren- 
dered twice as long, he thought it very proba- 
ble that Mr. would purchase it : at pre- 

sent^ it was much too short to answer their 
purpose.” 

Emily took the MSS. with a deep sigh ; 
there were many questions she had wished to 
ask, and even circumstances and sorrows to 
which she had earnestly desired, and positively 
determined to advert, had she been so happy as 

to find Mr. H ; but the “not at home,” 

ruined all her present hopes, — to the young 
and fashionable-looking person before her it 
was impossible to speak, wretched and desti- 
tute as she was. 

Ah! poor Emily, — thou whose first steps 
were watched with so much solicitude, whose 
wants were provided with the hand of lavish 


INTEGRITV. 


in 


tenderness, — who shall describe the trembling 
steps, the sinking heart, the hopeless, helpless, 
despondency of thy soul, during the long and 
weary way to thy cheerless habitation ! Thou- 
sands of thy fellow-creatures passed by thee, 
innumerable lights beamed around thee ; but 
the face of a friend was unseen by thine eye, 
the voice of consolation unheard by thy ear. 
That peopled desart, which of all other wilder- 
nesses is the most appalling, surrounded thee, 
and gave, in its fullest sense, the misery of 
standing in the wide world alone ! 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Emily entered her lodging, the room 
was dark, save the dying embers which enabled 
her to see that her aunt was already gone to 
bed ; and she inquired with great solicitude, 
but in a whisper, “if she had been ill during 
her absence ?” 

“Why no. Miss, not* to say ill; for she 
wrote a letter, and sent me with it to the post- 
office ; but when I came back, she said as how 
she had a pain in her side and would like to 
lie down ; and it struck me as how she was 
pining ater you, for she sithed sadly as she 
looked at the window. Howsomever, I let 
down the bed, and she laid dowh; and when 


112 


INTEGRITV. 


the gentleman came, I got them some tea, and 
she seemed to be almost well again ; and afore 
he left madam he gived her some physic, as 
was in the cupboard, and went away, and she 
fell asleep ; but she does give such sobs, so odd- 
ly you can’t think.” 

By this time Emily had lit a candle ; and 
shading it with her hand, she approached the 
bed to see whether she really slept. 

The hands of Mrs. Hastings were thrown 
out and clasped together as if in prayer, but 
the placid expression of countenance so usual 
with her was gone : — her features had even 
the appearance of recent convulsion ; and 
thick, coming, low sobs, burst from her breast, 
while a cold dew was gathering in drops upon 
her brow. Emily raised her head with her 
arm, on which she opened her eyes, and in a 
few moments gazed upon her with her usual 
benignity, and made an effort to speak ; but 
the words she would have uttered died upon 
her lips, — her eyes closed, and again her 
powers of respiration became laboured and 
alarming. 

In great astonishment and distress, Emily 
bade the little girl fetch her sister, who was a 
woman of sense and experience, and who im- 
mediately obeyed the summons. 

On seeing the invalid she observed, “ that 
surely the lady had taken something improper, 
— she feared the child had done something 
wrong.” 

“I did nothing but give the two little hot- 


l^'TEGKITY. 


1 lo 

ties to the young gentleman, and he poured 
one into a cup, and she drank it in a moment ; 
and here stands the other.” 

Emily perceived with a horror that froze her 
blood, that the bottle which remained was a 
small draught generally taken at bed-time ; — 
the bottle emptied was one of drops, usua,lly 
taken to soothe the cough, and compose the ir- 
ritability of her system. 

As soon as it was possible, this person pro- 
cured a medical gentleman, to whom she im- 
parted tlie circumstances that had arisen ; but 
immediately on seeing the invalid, he declar- 
ed that all was over : and the only consolation 
he could bestow was an assurance that the ex- 
piring patient was free from suffering. 

When this sentence was pronounced, Emi- 
ly heard it with a sensation of horror which 
seemed to throw all the faculties of her mind 
into profound stupor, and in the intensity of 
sorrow to destroy perception ; but the first 
movement of the patient — the deep sound of 
her labouring breath, — the dull glances of her 
eyes, as from time to time they half opened, 
and then quickly closed again, — all recalled in 
its most vivid sense the bitter agony, the lively 
affection, the entire veneration she felt ; and 
throwing herself beside her on the bed, she 
poured forth her grief in lamentations, which 
only ceased with exhaustion, — for, alas ! she 
was not called on to suppress it. 

Hour after hour passed, and Tom returned 
not — por did any change serve to vary the 


114 


INTEGRITY. 


I 

monotonous approach of the king of terrors. 
In vain was the slowly stiffening form clasped 
to’ a bosom almost as cold — in vain were the 
departed senses addressed by the tenderest ap- 
peals to recognition,— no effort recalled per- 
ception, nor happily did any indication of suf- 
fering disturb the calm within ; and the gentle 
and purified spirit at length took its eternal 
flight, without marking the moment of its de- 
parture. 

But as hope exists even in the midst of 
every motive to despair, when at last there 
was neither breath nor pulse, when again and 
again Emily had heard the assurance, “ that 
all was over,” she then found that the grief al- 
ready insupportable admitted increase; and 
she sunk on the bed in the happy oblivion of a 
swoon, apparently as dead as her whom she la- 
mented. 

It was now about six o’clock, and the mis- 
tress of the house, who had from pure compas- 
sion remained with Emily, and was really in 
great distress from her present situation, at 
this moment heard Tom returning home. She 
had long known of his irregularity, but was at- 
tached to him from the frankness of his man- 
ners, and sincerely wished him well ; and it 
instantly struck her that the awful and heart- 
rending spectacle before her was calculated 
to produce good effects ; and with blameable 
and cruel precipitation, she hastily led him into 
the immediate presence of this apparently two- 
fcdd stroke 


INTEGRITY. 


115 


To behold a mother always tenderly beloved 
thus suddenly snatched away, — to see Emily 
lie by her lifeless, as if killed by the stroke, — 
so overcame the wretched young man, already 
a sufferer, that he appeared to be seized with 
sudden madness, and in his frightful ravings re- 
paid with terror the unw’ise experiment made 
on his feelings ; but Emily revived to sense 
and sorrow from the sound of his voice, and 
the pains now taken to convince him that she 
at least was yet living, somewhat restored his 
senses. 

The moment that the poor girl was able to 
comprehend that there was another human be- 
ing near her, as wretched as herself— -that Tom, 
the fondly beloved, the youngest darling of his 
mother, was bending over that mother’s corpse 
in agony ; weak and exhausted as she was, and, 
according to her own ideas, trembling on the 
brink of the grave, she roused herself to re-as- 
sure and soothe him, under the dreadful cir- 
cumstance which must inevitably give to his 
grief a pang beyond her own. 

But she spoke with more than wonted kind- 
ness, and he answered not ; she even took his 
hand, and pressed it between her own, but the 
pressure was not returned. His eyes were 
fixed alone upon his mother ; and the voice 
which had lately almost howled in the wild- 
ness and astonishment of its grief, was now 
seized as with the stupor of idiotcy ; and the 
terrific recollections of his own hurried atten- 
tions, and their probable consequences, in 


116 


INTEGKITV. 


creased the acuteness of his feelings beyond the 
power of his reason. 

. “ Oh, God of mercy!” cried Emily, falling 
bn her knees as she still held his cold and mo- 
tionless hand, “ have mercy upon him— have 
mercy upon him ! It was the last prayer of her 
lips — the last breathing of her devout heart. 
Oh, God of mercy ! hear her prayer ; she was 
indeed thy servant.” 

Tom gave a deep sigh ; and clapping his 
hand on his forehead, seeming trying to recall 
his senses. He sat down by the bed-side. The 
attendant had now thrown a handkerchief over 
the face of the corpse, but tlie left hand still 
lay extended on the bed: he took that hand, 
and clasped it between his own. The thin- 
ness — the pressure of the ring, recalled the 
memory of her long sufferings, her husband’s 
absence, her many privations, her late la- 
bours, her unceasing goodness ; — all by de- 
grees came back, like the images of a forgot- 
ten dream. 

With them again came sorrow, — heart- 
rending, but salutary sorrow. His frame was 
shaken — tears poured down his cheeks like 
a mountain-torrent ; but memory and sanity 
returned, and in her sense of relief on this 
account, Emily learnt that there was even in 
her desolate situation the power of being more 
desolate. Such, however, was the severity 
of the present affliction, aided by previous 
fatigue and long fasting, that she became 
seriously ill. and fell into frequent swooning? 


IKTEGKITY. 


117 


the whole ot the following day, during which 
time her cousin never left the house, although 
she was too ill to see him, and now shared 
the chamber of the poor woman to whose 
compassion she was indebted for all the little 
help she received in this severe affliction. 

During the whole day poor Tom remained 
in the house, and never quitted the humble 
apartment where lay the remains of her who 
had ever been his dearest parent, and had 
long been considered his only one. Late in 
the evening he again went out, but the cir- 
cumstance was not mentioned to Emily ; who, 
after a long day of sad reflection and severe 
sufferings, both mental and bodily, had at 
length sunk into uneasy slumber. 

Perhaps there are few sensations to which 
the human mind is subject, so complicated 
and distressing, (and, alas ! how many can 
sympathise with them!) as those which pour 
in upon the mind, as we awaken from the 
temporary oblivion of our sorrow, to recall 
the memory of a loss like this of our unhappy 
orphan. The exalted sanctity, the pure, high 
character of the deceased, had been so united 
with perfect sweetness of temper^ child-like 
simplicity of manners, and that richness of 
imagination which, even where it may lead 
to error, never fails to interest, by displaying^ 
the powers of the mind and the affections of 
the heart, that no one ever knew her inti- 
mately without loving her tenderly, even as 
she loved them. What, then, must have been 


118 


INTEGRITY. 


the closeness of that tie which existed betwixt 
her and her orphan niece, whose disposition, 
and even person, had so greatly resembled 
hers, that she had been generally considered 
as her daughter. This dear aunt — her un- 
bounded affection — her singular excellencies 
— her sufferings, endured with such calm for- 
titude, such religious heroism, and her awful 
departure — the chasm it had left, — all — all 
broke on the memory of Emily ; and she start- 
ed at the view of her own misery, like one 
who wakes on the brink of a precipice, or 
perceives the yawning fissure of an earth- 
quake opening at his feet. 

It was now dawn, and Emily left the side 
of her sleeping companwa,, and, huddling on 
her clothes, entered with silent steps the 
chamber of death. The struggles of expiring 
nature were no longer heard, yet were they 
almost expected still to wound her ear, so 
deep had been their impression; and with a 
terrible eagerness that yet dreaded to satisfy 
its indefinite feelings, she eagerly gazed on 
the face which till now had ever met her with 
a smile. 

The features were now perfectly placid, 
and gave evidence that death had been pain- 
less in the awful and unexpected seizure of 
his victim; and Emily felt, even now, a fuU 
conviction that for the departed it was indeed 
a change most blessed, — and although effect- 
ed by a mean the most heart-rending, was to 
her a removal far more to be desired than 


INTEGRITY. 


119 


any mode by which weak human reason would 
have prescribed its own deliverance from the 
burden of existence. She had not languished 
for the aids of art, nor the comforts of life ; 
she had not pined for her banished husband — 
her distant son ; pain had not racked her— 
hope had not deserted her ; the very draught 
of death was presented by that beloved child, 
of whose carelessness she was unconscious, 
but with whose attentions she was happy, and 
whom she thanked and blessed for the awful 
boon he presented. 

Whilst these ameliorating thoughts stole 
over the sad tide of grief which deluged the 
bosom of Emily, she became conscious (inex- 
perienced~*Trs she was) that a change was 
taking place, which called for that immediate 
attention she alone was likely to pay. The 
memory of her dear mother, and all the con- 
solatory circumstances which then attended 
her, rushed upon her mind ; and the terrible 
contrast her present situation offered, again 
opened all the sluices of grief, and added the 
pangs of the past to the pressure of the present. 

But Emily, solitary as was her situation, 
could not be permitted long to weep. In the 
abode of poverty, even the most attached 
mourner is compelled to yield to stern neces- 
sity, and expedite the removal of that beloved 
form, to which it clings even in death and 
Emily was called upon not only to bury her 

* Perhaps the author of the unequalled Scottish sto- 
ries never gave a more decided nor affecting view of 


120 


INTEGRITY. 


aunt, her only friend, but to consider on the 
means of doing it. 

“ There are several people who have known 
us, and who would help us a little at such a 
time as this, even if my uncle is already their 
debtor. I must get poor Tom to search them 
out immediately : there is no other way but 
begging now, but it is fully justifiable. 1 have 
written in vain to Mr. Shelburne ; besides, he 
is too far from us ; we must have help this ve- 
ry day.” 

As Emily thus reasoned, she moved towards 
the door of that adjoining closet where she be- 
lieved her cousin still slept ; but she was pre- 
vented from tapping by hearing his steps, as he 
rushed up the stairs and suddenly appeared be- 
fore her. 

If the countenance of this young man had 
on the preceding morning terrified her by the 
expression of distraction and sorrow which it 
then assumed, she was little less hurt at the 
smile with which he greeted her now ; for it 
was neither that of brotherly love, nor even of 
pleasure, but flitted over features full of deep 
sorrow, with a sort of momentary and indig- 
nant exultation, like a gleam of lightning in a 
winter sky. 

“ Emily, are you already up ?” 

“ Yes ; and I wanted to see you much : — 
we have a sad duty to perform.” 

nature in humble life, than when he shows us the tru- 
ly heart-stricken father mending his boat after the fu- 
neral of his eon ; he had no Hme'to weep. 

V'fde. AwTiauARY.. 


INTEGRITY. 


121 


I know it ; I know it all ; and I have for 
once done my best to save you, my poor girl. 
I am just come from the undertaker’s, who 
will be here immediately. Here, Emily, here 
is the money, take it, for God’s sake, take it.” 

As Tom spoke, he drew from his pocket se- 
veral pound notes, and a large quantity of sil- 
ver, all of which he pushed towards her with 
the air of one who loathes what he touches, 
and is suffering, not less from sorrow than 
from guilt, — from a concealment more severe 
than even his apparent cause of sorrow justi- 
fied, great as it was. 

“ Where — ^^Where did you get this money ? 
You have been out all night : — tell me, I con- 
jure you, tell me : surely — 

‘‘ I brought it from Hell^ Emily — nay, do 
not start in such terror. If I have wrung it 
from devils, it is for the use of an angel : — what 
could I do ?” 

Emily, sinking on the nearest chair, could 
only articulate, “ I know not what you mean.” 

“ My dear Emily, bear up, I beseech you. 
The money is fairly mine ; I won it — won it 
at the place where I, of late, lost all my 
earnings — at the place where, in my hurry to 
attend, I poured out that cursed draught 
which has rendered us both motherless. 
These places are called Hells, and they well 
deserve the name, for fiends alone inhabit 
them.” 

And could you, Tom, go there last night?” 

“Yes, Emily, I could; for I did go, but. 


I-NTEGRITl. 


under such agony of soul as you cannot judge, 
I went to play my last stake for a coffin for my 
own mother — a mother that died by my hand 
— a mother to whom I was perhaps a bad son, 
but for whom I could have endured — whom I 
loved — ” 

He burst at this moment again into a flood 
of even hysterical sorrow, and casting himself 
prostrate on the bed, exhibited such sincere 
and bitter grief, that Emily could only see in 
him an object of the utmost compassion, led 
astray by circumstances, and but little defend- 
ed by natural or acquired strength, but alive to 
the purest affections and the bitterest remorse. 
As soon as she could prevail upon him to listen 
to her, she endeavoured to soothe his mind, to 
impress upon him the value of his mother’s 
character, in the firmness and patience she had 
evinced, and prevail upon him henceforward to 
follow her example, to be worthy of such a 
mother. 

“ I have determined — even before I w’ent I 
made a vow to upon my knees, that I would 
go no more, save this single time, and you see 
how I was heard, Emily : — my prayer (sinner 
as I am) was answered ; I obtained the power 
to fulfil my last duties to her.” 

Emily trembled to observe how nearly su- 
perstition and guilt may be leagued to mislead 
the weak ; and she earnestly endeavoured 
to prove how much rather his success was 
likely to arise from associates who wished to 
inveigle him still fiirther. than ns the answer 


ISTEGHITY. 


of Heaven even to a good resolution. She was 
interrupted in her pious task by the arrival of 
the coffin ; and Tom, sick with agitation, re- 
morse, and sorrow, retired to seek repose. 

It was difficult for Emily even to expend in 
bare necessaries money which she considered 
in some sort nefariously obtained ; and as 
soon as ever she had th^ power of holding ^ 
pen, she scrawled a few almost illegible lines 
to a gentleman in the city, whom- she had 
seen at her uncle’s house in the country ; which 
she committed ter the care of the old man who 
was the master of the house, and had the 
sense to search for his abode in the Directory 
of a neighbouring tradesman. At this period 
her sense of anguish was so quickened by that 
of guilt in poor Tom’s conduct, thajt she felt 
as if she had reached the acme of/ suffering, 
and had the right of supremacy in misfor- 
tune, to call on the wide world for help. 
Alas ! fever was in her veins : / her aching 
throbbing head became incapable of enduring 
more ; and she w-as again obliged to return to 
her lonely garret, and there await that relief 
which she now conceived could be only found 
in the grave. 

It so happened that the medical gentleman 
who had been called to her aunt looked in 
during this day, to learn the result of the un- 
fortunate accident as to the time of the pa- 
tient’s death, and desiring to see Emily, was 
conducted to her apartment. Happily, his 
report of her ill health precluded her from 


124 


INTEGRITY. 


enduring the additional pain of being called 
before the coroner, now sitting ; and his hu- 
manity prescribed those medicial aids called 
for by her distressing situation. For some 
days, low delirium, or helpless stupor, the 
consequence of intense and overwrought sen- 
sibility, saved her from further suffering, or 
relieved by varying the nature of her mourn- 
ings; and when she again entered on her 
sorrowful* path of life, she was reduced to a 
kind of infantine weakness, which rendered 
her unable to reflect upon the past or con- 
template the future. 

Whilst Emily, thus unconscious, lay on the 
couch of sickness, alone, unsupported, the 
shadow of his former self, poor Tom, had laid 
his mother in a humble grave, and abandoned 
himself to uncontrollable grief, in the full 
belief that Emily would soon follow her ; when 
his solitude was visited, and his sorrows ^con- 
soled, by the Christian charity, and active 
benevolence of the friend she had addressed, 
and through whose kindness Emily also was 
provided with tliose restoratives her melan- 
choly situation required. 

In a short time others became associated 
in these oliices of humanity; and one old 
friend of Mr. Hastings, whose house on the 
Kennington road was within a little distance 
gave Tom an invitation to it, wdiich at once 
provided him the health and comforts he 
greatly needed, and yet enabled him fre- 
quently to learn the state of Emily’s health, 


INTEGRITY. 


125 


and to watch her habitation, which he did, in 
despite of every obstacle, not only with kind- 
ness, but suspicion, as if a treasure was depo- 
sited there which he dreaded to lose. 

Pursuant to this idea, as soon as he perceiv- 
ed that Emily received his visits, and admitted 
his conversation with that interest which evin- 
ced returning powers of health and intellect, he 
told her, “ that he was extremely desirous of 
removing her to a considerable distance from 
her present habitation, and doubted not, with 
the assistance of his excellent friends, he 
should be able to do it ; — he had strong reasons 
for it.” 

“ The people here have been very kind to 
me,” said Emily, “and I will not leave them 
until I am well ; — then, indeed, I shall be 
most thankful if your friends will procure for 
me a situation as a governess, for one or 
more little girls, which is the only one in 
which a young woman so situated can en- 
gage.” 

“O! they will soon do that; for I have 
told them all about your goodness and your 
cleverness, Emily ; and it was only last night 
that Mrs. Dennison was saying, how much 
distressed her friend Dr. Atherton had been 
for want of a serious young person in his 
family ; and I then thought on you immedi- 
ately.” 

“ But, dear Tom, you must not mention 
me as a governess of that description. I 
should be thankful for any respectable situa- 


INTEGRITY. 


\ 

126 

tion, and if a serious family should accept me, 
would do my duty to the utmost ; but they 
must not be deceived either by their charity, 
their hopes of amending me, or their natural 
conclusions, that as I have long lived with one 
who was indeed a saint, that I either partook 
her sanctity, or even wholly coalesced in her 
opinions.” 

“ I am sure, Emily, I always thought you 
a very good Christian ; you have read good 
books constantly, and almost know the New 
Testament off by heart ; you sing hymns like 
an angel, — then are you not serious to down- 
right sadness ? You never have been to a 
play, or a ball, I am certain, this four years ; 
— you never even think of such things, I be- 
lieve.” 

“ Not of late, certainly,” said Emily, with a 
sickly smile ; “ nor should I in your father’s 
house ever have loved pleasure so well as to 
have risked his anger, or your mother’s pain, 
by even naming such things ; but my acquies- 
cence would have been that of obedience, not 
principle, for I really believe there is no more 
sin in taking a dance than in eating a dinner ; 
both may be made alike the means of doing it, 
as I have often witnessed at our plentiful table 
in the country, when (otherwise) good people 
were guilty of gluttony and epicurism very fre- 
quently.” 

“ I have seen that myself many a time,” said 
Tom, “ certainly ; and don’t you remember, 
Emily, when Mr. M r prayed that my 


INTEGRITY. 


127 


dogs might drop down dead, (poor Sancho was 
one of them) and my new gun miss fire ; he 
nevertheless took all the partridges home in his 
pocket.” 

“ True, Tom, we have all our weak places ; 
but I presume to censure no one ; and were I 
to be placed with a pious family, should be hap- 
py to observe their rules, and thankful for shar- 
ing their devotions, and partaking, so far as I 
was able, their faith ; but I would not for the 
whole world affect that which I do not feel. 
I am too sincerely a Christian to be a hy- 
pocrite ; and T know, also, that with all my 
misfortunes, my losses, and with that desire to 
die which even yet hangs upon my heart, and 
that humble hope of eternal happiness which 
is my only comfort, that I am not in that state 
of grace of grace, that exemption from worldly 
mindedness, which is expected from those who 
profess to be what is now understood by the 
term serious.^'' 

“ But all that will come to you, Emily : if 
it comes to me, who have been so far out of 
the right road, it will surely visit you. At 
all events, I must take you hence : you are 
surrounded by dangers, of which your inno- 
cence can form no idea : there is a man, a 
wicked man, the very wretch who first won 
my money, and then suffered me to win his, 
purely for your sake — he haunts this place, 
and will know the first moment you go out ; 
and should he speak to you, he is so plausi- 
ble. so elegant, he will deceive you, as he de- 


128 


INTEGRITY. 


ceived me, for he appears all friendliness and 
goodness.” 

Emily shook her head in unbelief, but pro- 
fessed an earnest desire of removing as soon 
as she could ; and when her cousin was gone, 
the deplorable dependence of her situation, 
the want of that dear friend whose presence 
was her protection, the loss of fortune which 
seemed confirmed by time, the silence both 
of James and her uncle, and the total, the 
irreparable, the incomprehensible loss of him 
to whom she had once looked as more dear 
and more stable than all the other gifts of 
Heaven, again pressed upon her spirits, with 
an effect less violent, but more saddening than 
ever; and in reviewing the conversation she 
had held with Tom, she could not forbear to 
think how unnecessary it was to deny the in- 
nocent amusements of life to one so little likely 
either to partake or desire them, — whose heart 
seemed closed to every sense save that of re- 
gret, and whom misfortune “ had shorn even to 
the quick,” in love, friendship, and fortune. 


INTEGRITi. 


129 


CHAPTER TX. 


Aware that she was now supported rather 
by the charity of Tom’s friends than any ex- 
ertions he could as yet be making for her him- 
self, poor Emily, in the earliest period of her 
convalescence, resumed her labours ; and when 
desired by her medical attendant to desist from 
drawing, on account of the weakness she still 
experienced, replied by saying, “ she wished it 
were in her power to procure some muslin 
work ; one or the other she must now endeavour 
to do.” 

Mr. Turner understood the must^ and pitied 
the endeavour; he was a kind-hearted liberal 
man, and sincerely wished to assist the object 
of his cares, for which purpose he meant to 
consult with his wife ; but as he was for the 
present silent, and departed sooner than usual, 
Emily felt afraid that ‘‘ he was afraid of her 
poverty.” While she was musing on the diffi- 
culties of her situation, the important letter 
arrived, which reminded her of her age, her 
poverty, and her duties, by conveying to her 
the interest money she held so sacred, but 
which she now wanted so cruelly. 

“ When I received these bills before,” 
said Emily to herself, “ she lived, whose ne- 
cessities might almost have excused me for 
infringing oh them ; but she is gone, and I 


130 


integeity. 


know my own duty and her wishes — but 1 am , 
in debt, and have no means of payment : what 
is my duty in such a case as this ?” 

A few minutes decided — she wrote with the 
bills to Mrs. Hastings, the widow, mentioning 
the death of her aunt, the difficulties of her si- 
tuation, and requesting the gift of as much mo- 
ney as she could spare, observing, ‘‘ that in a 
case of such great family distress as that which 
had involved them all, mutual assistance could 
be asked without a blush.’* 

Yet it is certain that Emily both blushed, and 
sighed, as she sent this letter on its speedy er- 
rand, although she felt that she could receive 
the assistance it entreated without degrada- 
tion ; and in the full assurance of gaining it, 
she ventured to despatch a note to Mr. Turner, 
requesting the account, which she yet trembled 
to receive, more especially as it was several 
days since she had seen her cousin ; and there 
were other trifling claims which lay heavy at 
her heart. 

The following morning, when Mr. Turner’s 
foot was heard on the stairs, her confusion and 
distress were excessive, more especially as in 
entering, he held a letter of large dimensions 
in his hand, which he presented to her the mo- 
ment of his entranc.e 

“Yes, Sir — I doubt not it is very right; 
and soon, very soon, I hope to be able 
to ” 

“ To open it, my dear young lady ; — I took 


INTEGRITY. ISl 

it from the hands of a footman who waits 
belowJ’ 

The caution of poor Tom against some un- 
known stranger, changed the flutter she had 
lately felt to a different object, and in great 
eagerness she exclaimed, — 

“ It is not for me — it cannot be ; I will 
open no letters: I beseech you, sir, to re- 
turn it.” 

“ It is not for you, certainly, being directed 
to the lady you have lost ; but surely it ought 
to be opened.” 

Immediately relieved, Emily seized the 
letter, well aware she had indeed a melan- 
choly right in all which concerned her de- 
parted relative ; and recollecting for the first 
time that her aunt had been said to have writ- 
ten a letter on the day of, her death — many 
weeks had passed since then, yet surely this 
must be connected with it. — In great agita- 
tion she opened and read as follows : — 

“Dear Madam, 

“ I am commissioned by Mr. Shelburne to 
say he exceedingly laments that his absence 
from England, for more than a year past, has 
prevented him from hearing of the painful 
events of which you write, and will make 
even his present answer appear to be unkind- 
ly delayed. He is now at Nice, in a bad 
state of health, but entreats you through me 
to point out in what he can be further ser- 
viceable, besides taking your niece, Miss 


132 


INTEGRITY. 


Shelburne, under his immediate protection, 
yet not so as to divide her unnecessarily from 
you. I entreat you to consider me as a 
friend, ready to make every arrangement, 
both on his behalf and my own, that can add 
to your comfort, and flatter myself that my 
little friend Emily remembers me. I enclose 
a check for fifty pounds, and beg to know 
whether it will be convenient to receive a 
call in the morning, from yours, faithfully, 
&c. &c. 

“Julia Hornby.” 

With heaving bosom and glistening eyes, 
Emily had glanced eagerly from the top to 
the bottom of this letter, and said twice, 
“ Julia Hornby,” ere, in the agitation of the 
moment, she recollected the writer; but 
when she did, she pressed it to her heart and 
her lips, and tears of the purest gratitude to 
Heaven gushed freely from her eyes ; and 
putting out her still shaking hand she ex- 
claimed, “ Ah ! Sir, how much have I to 
thank you for ! What would have become of 
me, if I had refused this letter ?” 

“ Can you make me useful in answering 
it ? for I am sure you cannot hold a pen.” 

“ Oh, Yes ! — tell her so ; say what yon 
please, only forget not that I love and thank 
her,” cried Emily ; and placing the letter in 
his hands, she hastened to throw herself on 
her knees, and with uplifted hands, and words 
inarticulate with overwhelming emotion, to 


INTUGRITY. 


135 


thank and glorify Him who- had thus in tner» 
■ cy “ looked upon her low estate,” and vouch- 
■ safed her the help it was alike honourable and 
happy to receive. 

Before the rapt spirit of Emily could re- 
turn to earth, her kind assistant had despatch- 
ed his note, and requested to see her, as he 
was really fearful that her fragile frame might 
be injured by joy, as it had been reduced by 
sorrow, and thought it really necessary to 
prescribe; in doing which, he presented her 
with a receipt for all demands, which he had 
generously and delicately prepared before his 
arrival. 

“ Oh ! Sir, you are too good, — but I have 
now money.” 

“ True, and you will want it all, for the 
lady of Sir Joshua Hq^'nby is very gay, and 
lives in great style, arid will, under present 
circumstances^ undoubtedly take you imme- 
diately home. But, I do not seek to make 
you feel my services painful ; in your port- 
folio is the means of rendering me your debt- 
or literally ; since my daughter is earnestly 
pursuing the accomplishment you have so suc- 
cessfully studied.” 

When this liberal and skilful professor 
was gone, as soon as Emily could sufficiently 
compose herself, she wrote to poor Tom, 
entreating him to come to her immediately, 
and arrange all her affairs ; saying that she 
certainly considered him as the sharer of the 


i34 


INTEGRITY. 


sum sent by her uncle, since it was in fact given 
to his mother. 

Tom was at this time engaged by their pity- 
ing friends, in a department suited to his scanty 
knowledge, but exhaustless activity, and was 
really more respectable, and likely to become 
more happy, than he had ever been before ; but 
his personal appearance was still so shabby as 
to depress his spirits, and retard his progress ; 
it will be therefore readily conceived with what 
joy and thankfulness he heard the news, and 
received the summons. 

So fully did the heart of Emily glow with 
gratitude towards all who had assisted her in 
the day of sorrow, and so large appeared her 
present possessions when compared with the 
past beggary she had endured, and so little 
idea could she form of ; the shabby and forlorn 
appearance she made', when contrasted with 
those who move in the world of fashion, that 
before she had even considered on the positive 
necessity of providing herself with a neat suit 
of mourning ; her debts of law, and of feeling, 
had reduced her purse to a very slender pit- 
tance for such a purpose, and she was making 
eager and somewhat anxious inquiries on the 
subject, when a hackney-coach drew up to her 
humble door, and a handsome gentlemanly 
person alighted, who desired to speak with 
Miss Shelburne. 

Emily was now too happy to remember 
her suspicions, and she hastened with eager, 
though trembling steps, to the stranger, who 


TNTEGEITV. 


ys'd 

immediately announced himself as, Sir Joshua 
Hornby ; and who, in doing so, cast upon her 
a look not less of pity than surprise, followed 
by one of self-gratulation, as he observed — 
am commissioned by lady Hornby to 
take you back with me. Miss Shelburne ; and 
as she is now at Richmond, where we have 
taken a house for tlie summer, I thought it 
best to come, in a hired carriage : so pray use 
me like a friend ; order what luggage you 
please into it, wrap yourself up as you like, 
and remember only that your companion is an 
old married man.” 

Emily, in the cordiality of this address, felt 
the flutter of her spirits alleviated, and her 
timidity re-assured ; she had already remem- 
bered, that Julia Sothoby, the beauty of the 
village, where she resided with her mother, a 
gay, good-natured, and accomplished girl, 
had, on a visit to London, married, in the 
usual phrase, “ exceedingly great,” by be- 
coming the wife of a baronet, whose estates 
in Dorsetshire lay near the place where Mr . 
Shelburne resided ; and that through her 
means her mother had heard of that gentle- 
man several times. The iihiess and death of 
her mother — her long estrangement from the 
village in question, and since then, the terrible 
situation in which she had been so long placed, 
banished all happier traces of past days, but 
they now returned, bearing pleasant reminis- 
cences of the person, manners, and character 


V66 


INTiJGRiTY. 


of Lady Hornby, which those of her husband 
seemed to confirm and heighten. 

A scanty bundle contained all the worldly 
possessions of Emily, save her port-folio ; yet 
words of contention were heard below as to 
who should place them in the coach ; and “ I 
cannot do it,” “ I will not do it,” met the ear, 
but the sounds were neither loud nor angry. 
As Emily cast a long, lingering, and almost 
sorrowful look round the little room where 
she had suffered so much, and where she had 
taken an eternal farewell of her best and 
dearest friend. Sir Joshua stepped down the 
little staircase, and there saw the folio carried 
away by the coachman, as three children 
were all crying at the sight of it ; an aged 
man stood at the door, bareheaded, “ to pay 
his last respects to Miss;” but his decent 
daughter, unable to speak, was retiring from 
view. 

Emily could only articulate, “ I will come 
to see you all,” as she stepped into the coach, 
before she too burst into tears, and continued 
for some time overwhelmed with an emotion 
it was difficult to define, and impossible to 
subdue : her companion did not interrupt her ; 
he saw clearly that sorrow and sickness had 
stffidued her spirits, and he concluded, that 
she was in the convenient and common phrase, 
“ completely nervous.” 

When Emily, at length, ventured to look 
up, they were passing the bridge at Battersea, 
and the sight of the noble Thames and his 


INTEGRITV. 


137 


beautiful shores, decked in the gay livery of 
early summer, broke upon her senses with 
all the effect ascribed to enchantment ; and 
as she looked out from her old close bonnet, 
with looks animated by the scene, Sir Joshua 
said to himself, ‘‘ Well ! I do think she is as 
handsome as Lady Hornby described her, but 
I did not see it till now.” 

For several miles the scene continued to 
charm and exhilarate our invalid, but yet the 
journey was, after so long a confinement, too 
much for her strength, and she was nearly 
fainting at the moment when she alighted and 
scarcely knew how she found herself in the 
dressing-room of Lady Hornby, when she 
had her bonnet taken off, and felt a warm 
kiss impressed on her cheek, and a voice was 
heard to say Thank you my love ; you have 
managed admirably ; this is indeed, poor 
Mrs. Shelburne’s child — but little, little^ did 
I conceive she could be reduced to this.” 

Emily lay for some time on a sofa before 
she had the power to look up at the kind 
speaker, who was the only person now left in 
the room ; at length she lifted up her eyes, 
and saw a handsome, elegant, lady-like per- 
son, whose features she recollected, but whose 
general appearance was so much more splen- 
did than any thing she had ever seen before, 
as to be almost appalling to her ; she cast her 
eyes in dismay upon her own habiliments. 

“ Don’t be uneasy about your dress,” said 
Lady Hornby ; “ when you find yourself able 


INTEGIIITY. 


13ii 

to rise, I think, as we are nearly of a height, 
that matter may be managed ; for I was in 
mourning about eighteen months ago, and 
was then much thinner than I am now.” 

Lady Hornby, as she spoke, drew out two 
gowns, and various other articles of dress, 
which she hung over the fender before the 
fire, which, in her consideration for Emily’s 
health, was then burning. Feeling that such 
kindness called for exertion, she arose and 
speedily began to arrange her toilet, to the 
evident delight of her benignant nostess, whom 
she observed with great care and facility re- 
moved every article of her late dress. It was 
evident that she did not choose her servants, 
or children, should consider her friend as an 
object of their pity. 

From this hour it might be said that Emily 
breathed a new atmosphere, and lived in a 
new world. The house was delightfully situ- 
ated, and from the garden were enjoyed those 
features of the surrounding landscape which 
are peculiar in the perfection of the objects 
they embrace, not less than the extent they 
offer — where nature herself assumes a courtly 
form, and suffers not one feature to intrude 
that diminishes the stately softness of the 
smiling scene. To Emily, every breeze “ bore 
health and healing on its wings,” and every 
object had charms beyond their inherent ex- 
cellence, for they drew out the long-depressed 
powers of her own mind, the perceptions of 
beauty, and the sense of admiration, which 


INTEGRITY. 33^4 

constitute the peculiar zest of early existence 
and iinsated curiosity. 

These sensations were greatly aided by the 
natural affection she had for children. As the 
sweet boy and girl, which constituted Lady 
Hornby’s present nursery, were in themselves 
delightful children, and at the age when 
opening intellect, and more matured^affection 
(for the heart is ever the most forward in 
, early life) render them most interesting ; so 
that when the worthy parents were engaged, 
a ramble with them was ever agreeable. In 
the library was an inexhaustible store; and 
Emily was so behind the rest of the world in 
modern reading, that she frequently declined 
jail other company to associate with Ivanhoe 
I and Waverley, weep over Effie Deans, or 
soar with Childe Harold, and tremble at 
Lara. Her natural quickness and vivacity 
I returned with the strength of her constitu- 
I tion, and the composure of her spirits ; and 
I although she by no means forgot, even for a 
i single day, that “ some things were, that were 
, most dear” to her, yet “ were hers no longer,” 

I she yet experienced a species of resurrection 
1 from poverty and misery, which placed her 
' comparatively in paradise. 

■ Lady Hornby witnessed with all tJie joy of 
i a benevolent and gay heart, this return to the 
I blessings of existence, and the powers of use- 
i fulness, in a young creature whose outset in 
; life had been so singularly unfortunate; and 
I she frequently insisted to her husband, “ that 


240 


INTEGKITV. 


there had never been a girl more lovely, in the 
softness and pensive character of her person 
and manners, or more fascinating in the 
sprightly sallies which at intervals shed a 
brilliant and unexpected beam upon the good 
sense of her general conversation.” Her 
complexion, always delicate, had been ren- 
dered by circumstances perfectly transparent, 
and now received the purest tints of the rose 
to aid its pearly whiteness; her deep blue 
eyes were almost indefinite in their colour, 
from their radiance ; and the fine contour of 
her face and form resumed the proportions 
•which penury had reduced, and sickness 
sharpened ; and her graceful person received 
those aids from simple, but becoming dress, 
which evinced a good taste, and proper ap- 
preciation of the society in which she now 
moved. 

Yet, happy as Emily now felt herself, it 
cannot be supposed that a mind so early em- 
bued with the love of independence and jus- 
tice as hers had been, could rest without mak- 
ing some inquiries as to her present right of 
enjoyment, or suggesting her intention, when 
her health became throughly established, of 
entering on some plan for future subsistence. 
Lady Hornby had known her mother well, 
and revered her highly; she was a woman 
full of vivacity, and inclined to enjoy the good 
things of life ; but she was never averse to 
serious conversation, and was ever strict in 
the fulfilment of all to which she attached 


liSTEGRlTY. 


141 


ihe liauie of duty ; she read the character and 
wishes of Emily, and sought to render her 
easy on this and every other subject. 

“ Mr. Shelburne, my dear, has no other re- 
lation but you : he has been a careful man, 
and is in very good, though not great, circum- 
stances. I cannot see how the most fastidi- 
ous delicacy can object to receiving obliga- 
tions from a man so situated, especially when 
you know that in him it is only the returning 
obligation.*’ 

“ If I could any way add to his happiness, 
I should certainly be thankful for his kind- 
ness, and feel myself justified in accepting it.” 

“ Well, child, the time may come, (and 
come quite soon enough too,) when you are 
called upon to aid the cares of his nurse and 
housekeeper ; — in the mean time, I really think 
you may satisfy your conscience, and yet ac- 
cept the conveniences and comforts of life, 
especially when you are aware that you add 
to mj happiness, relieve the self-reproach of 
your worthy uncle, who, though an old baclie- 
lor of the stingy order, is a very good man in 
the main, and are moreover head governante 
of my hopeful progeny.” 

“You are very kind ; but — ” 

Does but carry any meaning besides, ‘ I am 
loo proud to be obliged,’ — or, ‘ I am too sus- 
picious to trust you?’ — Does it mean to say, 
‘A lime may come when my uncle may in- 
terfere in some tender concern, and that is 
the point I cannot submit to V ” 


liSTEGRlT^. 


Wz 

* Oh !/ no,” said Emily, with a foi'ced smile j 
“ I have nothing to do with tender concerns, 
I assure you.” 

Yet, surely I remember hearing something 
abbnt you and — and a pale-faced West n dia 
boy, whom poor Mrs. Shelburne was very fond 
of? — I beg your pardon, Emily, — I see I pain 
you ; — I perceive he is dead.” 

“ I do not know that he is, but I firmly be- 
lieve it. I will, however, tell you all that I 
jillow ; — though the unexpected mention of 
the affliir has indeed a little affected me, yet 
I can speak now without pain, for with me 
affliction has subdued affliction.” 

Emily then gave a detailed account of the 
very few^ circumstances which comprised the 
“ short eventful history” of her early love, for 
it contained also that of her long-concealed 
sufferings, her many fears, and, finally, the 
settled opinion she had entertained for the 
last tw^o years, that Frederic Tracy was in- 
deed dead. 

Dead to you, undoubtedly, my dear, for 
ei'cr, and I would have you believe so ; but 
yet hold your faith in such a manner as that 
if he were suddenly to rise again, his ghost 
should not startle you, but you w'ould treat 
it with the quiet contempt such a spirit de- 
serves.”- \ 

“Dead or alive,” replied Emily, warmly, 
Frederic Tracy never will merit contempt, 
flis situation was very singular, and probablj^, 
proved veiy unfortunate: sickness and mis- 


INTEGRITY. 


143 


fortunes, similar to my own, might prevent 
his writing in the first place; and since then 
I have been a wanderer in places where it was 
difficult to trace me ; but I am certain, quite 
certain, of his steady attachment. — My mother 
guarded me, as well as she could, against the 
events she foresaw as likely to prove eventual 
barriers; but she said the heart of Frederic 
might be relied on : and pressed upon me as 
a duty, that if I married another man, I would 
closely compare his character with that of 
Tracy, as the only one on which I could rely 
for happiness.” 

Well, my dear, I would have you do so 
too, since you deem him so unimpeachable. 
Country ladies, and boarding-school misses, 
have a right to indulge in reliance on the 
fidelity of nineteen, and the virtue of West 
India planters ; but such faith is not expect- 
ed in town-fashioned observers of mutable 
humanity, — so, my love, we will say no more 
about it.” 

Lady Hornby was as good Jis her word ; 
she not only said no more, but she endeav- 
oured, by employing the mind of Emily, and 
engaging her more in company, to lose the 
remembrance of what she deemed a childish 
affair on her part ; and so sincerely was she 
attached to her young charge, that she was 
anxious to obliterate from her mind every 
circumstance that had shrouded her opening 
.life with sorrow. 


TV. 


j44< 


CHAPTER X. 

Richmond was now jBIling with company^ 
aiul many friends of Sir Joshua’s were among 
the number. The weather was fine and parties 
were frequently formed upon the water, an 
amusement to which our present family was 
extremely partial. Emily delighted in the 
soothing breeze, the gently undulating mo- 
tion, the musical ripple of the waves, as part- 
ed by the oars, and the green landscape 
crowned by majestic trees and stately build- 
ings, which met her view on either hand as 
they passed unconsciously along. Nor did she 
now shrink from the salutation of gay friends 
as one infected by poverty, but readily enter- 
ed into conversation with the lively and the 
well-informed, whenever opportunity invited. 
When not upon the water, their evening pro- 
menade on the hill was frequently productive 
of this, as it was the place for recounoifering 
friends ; and one evening they met a young 
gentleman, whom Sir Joshua accosted as his 
cousin, and hailed with uncommon demon- 
strations of joy, in which his lady united. 

Emily could not feel surprised at the re- 
gard they expressed, for she thought at the 
first view she had never seen a more grace- 
ful and elegant person, and his manners 
were calculated to aid the impression of his 
form, and struck her the more on account 


INTEGRITY. 


14-5 


of the marked attention lie paid to her, which 
almost resernhied that of an ohl acquaintance, 
and she tried in vain to recollect the name of 
Edgeinount. The gentleman protesteil that 
he had come down on purpose to find them 
out, as he had not heard of their movements 
since they went to Nice, till the preceding daj^, 
and then only in general terms, 

Mr. Edgeinount from this time became the 
arbiter elegantarium of all their amusements, 
and soon added many to tlie circle of the 
young and the gay, w^hich the hospitable and 
elegant Lady Hornby had already attracted. 
Among these were many of the daughters of 
fashion and fortune, wlio cast a questioning 
eye upon the right of our heroine to mingle 
in the gay assemblage, and by her beauty 
alone eclipse their united claims. Her na- 
tural modesty deserved not tliis, and her sen- 
sibility felt it but too acutely, and would have 
done so much more, but for the protecting po- 
liteness of Mr. Edgemount, who was ever near 
to ward off the wound, or sooth her under it ; 
and neither the attractions of wealth or rank 
ever induced him to ivaive those assiduities 
which rendered her the object of envy; but 
awoke in her the most lively gratitude, and 
an occasional sense of exultation new to her 
feelings. 

Yet Emily was at this time far from being 
at ease, for she was called upon to dress 
much. The mourning of Lady Hornby was 
compIeteTv worn out, and the contents of het 
N 2 


146 


I.'JTEttRITT. 


purse were already expended iu mere tiilles , 
for Mrs. Hastings bad not accorded her the 
little loan she had intreated, pleading in ex- 
cuse the sickness of her children. With the ut- 
most management it was therefore impossible 
for Emily to spin out her share of the money- 
farther, and she was conscious to much mor- 
tification, from the sneers which were in one 
respect merited from the figure she cut. She 
could not bring herself to run in debt; and 
an application to poor Tom produced only a 
promise to assist her a? soon as he should 
procure his legacy, which he expected soon. 
It appeared evident that Lady Hornby either 
could not, or would not assist her; for her 
situation was known to her in every parti- 
cular. With her far distant relation she 
had as yet held no personal correspondence, 
and she apprehended that he was the kind of 
person who would suppose his present suf- 
ficient for her relief, and her expenses, for a 
year to come. 

As Emily thus reasoned, she felt the 
shackles of her dependent state, and sincerely 
wished that Lady Hornby would allow her 
to prosecute her desire of entering some fa- 
mily as a governess, where she would be less 
exposed to ‘ the proud ones’ contumely and 
her situation assume its true character as a 
fiortionless female, yet hold its due, though 
humble rank, as a gentlewoman. But as 
Emily thus reasoned, she felt that there was 
not only in (he warm affection she naturally 


iXTEGRIT-r. 


147 


entertained for Lady Hornby, but in the so- 
ciety of her house, an attraction from which 
it was impossible to tear herself. Her colour 
rose to her cheek, and as quickly receded 
when she thought on Mr. Edgemount ; she 
felt as if she could suffer any thing rather 
than degrade herself in his eyes ; and though 
she said to herself, “ yet, surely, I would not 
deceive him,” it was only answered with a 
sense of solicitude to secure him a remem- 
brance of his attentions ; the envy they had 
excited, the fears of rivalry, the indefinite 
nature of his words, but the pointed expres- 
sion of his looks, and the fascination — the 
generosity of his distinguishing regard. 

Such were the hurried thoughts rushing 
through her bosom, when Lady Hornby, her- 
self, presented her with a letter, which she 
observed, from the post-mark, must be from 
Hr. Stafford, and “ she hoped contained 
money,” adding, “which you want terribly, 
Emily, but not worse than myself; however, 
we have both credit, and must use it ; for I 
have fixed on Tuesday month for my break- 
fast, and as I must be the Calypso of the day, 
so must you be my first attendant nymph ; — 
but read, child, read.” 

‘‘ The letter is from Mr. Stafford, who is 
coming to London to receive money, and is 
desirous of paying in that which he considers 
himself owing to me ; and know'ing that I am 
actually of age, now, wishes me to meet him, 
and o.ffers to transact the business of placing 


INTEGRITY. 


H8 

it in the funds for me. It is a very friendly 
letter, but, to me, a puzzling, and, in fact, 
distressing one.’* 

“ Distressing ! T wish the post had brought 
me a trouble of the same nature, instead of 
the everlasting address of, 'Madam, having 
a large account to make up on the 2 1st, am 
under the necessity of desiring a remittance 
from your ladyship, ad interim, 8cc. ;* which 
alone constitutes the elegant correspondence 
of the day j to which my pen must reply by 
fair promises; my conscience by an assur- 
ance, that, though a little behind hand just 
now, I arn yet the most regular woman in my 
own circle; and my situation, by saying, that 
the dejeune of Lady Hornby is indispensable ; 
and, of course, old debts must w'ait whil^ 
new ones are contracting.” 

If I were going to receive my own money, 
then — ” 

“You are, Emily, going to receive your 
07vn, to all intents and purposes. When you 
told me the history of that money, and the 
fine scene played otf by old Hastings, for the 
aid of his own brother’s brats, at the very 
time he was quietly robbing the child of his 
sister-in-law, I made no comment, because I 
foutid that the money was actually gone, and 
I hate talking about irreparable evils, — ’tis 
playing the after-game when one has lost the 
odd trick ; but I determined, whenever said 
interest made its appearance, to look sharp 
after it; but from what you had said of the 


i^ntegrity. 


US 


ijme, had no bopes of seeing it so soon, still 
less, that the principal was so near its proper 
destination. Never could an arrival be more 
a-propoSf as I take it for granted you will 
lend me a couple of hundreds, which I really 



“I would lend you — ah! wiiat ^vould I 
not lend you ? or, rather, what do I not 07 ve 
you ! But I can never consider the money 
mine ; and though my uncle had, indeed, 
done a most unwise and blameable thing in 
trusting James with my property, I am fully 
convinced it was with no nefarious intention. 
The law, and the world, and my own w^ants, 
may justify me ; but I cannot justify myself 
in taking it: I have talked over the matter 
many times writh that angel whom I have lost, 
and for whose sake alone I could have been 
tempted to infringe upon it ; and we both 
came to the same conclusion, viz. ‘ that in 
my promise I had given away my right to re- 
tain it;’ in fact, I received, and therefore 
can only hold it for the orphans in question ; 
and they have no other aid, this / know, if 
no other person does ; and it is by my oim 
conscience I must be guided, not that of 
another.” 

“ Dear Emily, do listen to common sense, 
which certainly says, ‘ that where a female 
orphan, at the most critical period of her 
life, is stripped of more than eight thousand 
pounds, and thrown into want and tempt- 
ation, but has yet the means of preserving 


150 INTEGRITY. 

a small portion, she should hold it fast as a 
duty to herself, and use it as the means of 
preserving existence, otherwise she is guilty 
of the crime of suicide/ Your aunt was, I 
grant, a kind of angel on earth; but really 
I think a good woman is quite a sufficiently 
good thing for this wicked world, and there- 
fore, in all matters of business, take the ad- 
vice of one in preference.” 

“My mother was a good woman in your 
own sense, my lady ; and so strict were her 
ideas on such subjects, that I am certain, so 
long as I have the power of maintaining 
myself, she would hold me bound to fulfil 
the duty I, perhaps foolishly, took upon my- 
self; but wliich I yet ought to rejoice in, 
because I am certain the poor children would 
never have got the property if I had not 
done it.” 

“ Umph ! then what will you do in your 
zeal for helping a woman you never saw? 
and who refused you five pounds when you 
were dying !” 

“ Her children are as innocent as your 
own, Lady Hornby ; almost as young ; they 
have no father to protect them, and I have 
reason to fear no uncle either: if we differ 
in our ideas of the justice of this case, we 
cannot in the compassion it calls for : — think 
only of your own^ and then — ” 

“ Ah, w ell ! children are sacred creatures, 
I own ; but yet you are not bount! to feed 
ifjern with the bread you need yoiiiNelT. 


iM'EGRITi. 


15 


l^erliaps Ihe little difficulties which press 
upon me at this moment made me too eager 
to pounce upon your property: ’(is (he. way 
of the world, hut I trust not often my way; 
forgive me. I must now talk to you about 
your own dress, for dressed you shalt be, 
sweetly, elegantly, on this our morning, to 
the confusion of Lady Caroline and her three 
honourable daughters. Harry Edgemount 
has been helping me how to contrive it all ; 
depend upon it, we have felt all your slights 
in that quarter with sufficient acuteness.” 

Mr. Edgemount is very good.” 

“ Why, yes ! for a man of fashion, I 
take it he is ; at all events he is very hand- 
some, and you, Emily, think so — nay, never 
blush, child ; I am not going to arraign your 
constancy, and I certainly give credit to your 
taste ; but I have had some uneasy hours 
for you lately. You cannot but see that 
Edgemount is beset on all sides ; and it is 
so seldom that simple beauty can carry (he 
day, when rank, connection, and all-power- 
ful wealth are opposed > to it, that really it 
makes one tremble ; but do justice to your- 
self, and we will carry the day yet.” 

“ I really do not understand you my lady.” ' 

‘‘That is a little bit of a fib, Emily; but 
never mind, it is on the point where every 
woman deceives even her own self; and it is 
certain also that a married woman can see 
farther into the crannies and windings of a 
man’s heart, than any single woman can ; 


ijsrtniRFi’Y, 


UZ 

therefore I may be much deeper read in tliat 
of Edgemount than you are. I am, however, 
authorised in saying, * he is in love with you 
and between our own selves, (I will not whis- 
per it, — no, not even to sir Joe) you are in 
love with him.’’ 

“ Indeed, Lady Hornby, you are mistaken.” 

‘‘ Indeed, Miss Shelburne, I am not. De- 
pend upon my discretion, Emily, my pride ; 
I am too true a woman, too faithful to the 
delicacy of my sex, to betray you ; but, be- 
tween ourselves, round-about sentimentality 
W'ould be nonsense. My heart is set upon 
seeing you well married ; and I confess there 
is also to my taste something mighty piquant 
and inviting in the circumstance of thereby 
circumventing the knowing, and mortifying 
the surpercilious ; so that, altogether, the 
most manoeuvring French woman never was 
more busy than I am at this moment with 
this affair.” 

“ Pray don’t harass yourself on such an 
account. Marriage is a very serious affair. 
A man must be much more than handsome to 
justify — ” 

“ Very true ; and if he takes a womap with- 
out fortune or connection, give me leave to 
say, he proves himself more than handsome ; 
for he is disinterested aniS. generous ; and when 
all is said, a good person is no despicable 
quality — the lamp of love is very apt to burn 
dim, and if beauty finds oil, depend upon it, 
both parties ought to value the present/’ 


INTEGRll’l. 


163 


Tlie conversation was interrnpted by the 
arrival of cornpanyy and Emily hastily retired. 
There was a flutter on her spirits, both plea- 
surable and painful, which called for, yet 
shrunk from, self-examination ; — something 
like a sense of approaching triumph, of tender 
exultation, in the preference of a man she 
certainly admired, swelled in her bosom; but 
.yet there was also the first fear of a delicate 
woman, the ‘surely he does not know,’ 
which wounded her self-love; — then there 
was the confusion of Lady Hornby’s many 
reasons, against her own established opinions, 
on these perplexing money matters, — the full 
conviction that her patroness needed assist- 
ance, which gratitude compelled her to ac- 
cord, and her hitherto superior integrity in- 
duced her to withhold. — ‘What could she 
do?’ continually trembled on her lip, which 
was as frequently answered by, ^ some money 
I must have, both for Lady Hornby and my- 
self.’ ” 

But these thoughts were put to flight, when 
she was called to the breakfast-room, to help 
to write cards of invitation, and saw on the 
way Mr. Edgemount ali'ght from hiff curricle, 
and hasten forward to assist them. Lady H., 
in her element when elegant bustle was the 
order of the day, assigned to each their por- 
tion, desllfi!^' both her husband and visitor 
to give them into the hands of Emily for ap- 
probation. 

“ Sir Joshua’s are very neat,” said the mo- 

0 


154 


ISTEGRlTr. 


iiitor, really yours, Mr. Edgemount, are 
>» 

“ Abominable,*’ cried the barronet. “ Why, 
Edmund, you write worse than ever, since 
you were at college. They told me you cut 
a figure there ; — with these pothooks, it must 
have been a figure of fun, ha?” 

“Surely you would not have me legible, 
Sir Joshua? that is what no gentleman pre- 
tends to now-a-days: ^tis the most inconve- 
nient thing in the world:— but for the error, 
the vile rustic error of writing a fine hand, T* 
should never have cut the figure you allude 
to ; so there is a case in point against your 
own horrid legibleness.’’ 

“ Indeed ! pray let us hear it.” 

“ During our examination, I sat by accident 
near a country youth, who wrote not only 
with the rapidity required by the case, but 
with a neatness and beauty that proved him 
a descendant of old Tomkins; every word 
was legible enough to give you at a glance 
the meaning of a sentence, and most oppor- 
tunely came to my aid, just as I had reached 
the length of my own memorj^ I copied 
every thought — gave ’em in my own words, 
and, when added to the rest, they made such 
a weight of evidence, as to give me the day, 
and distance the penman, who became the 
cypher which made me a figure.” ’ 

“I hope,” said Emily, “I hope — ” But 
the object of her hope was not explained, and 
she blushed excessively. 


INTEGRITY, 


155 


“ When such a bloom is awakened by your 
hope, you can never be disappointed in it,’’ 
said Mr. Edgemount, with an inquiring eye ; 
but Emily was silent. 

“ 1 know, Emily, what you were about to 
say, for your eyes were fixed on my boy at 
the moment; — you hoped the child did not 
understand this story ; — as his father, I thank 
you, my dear: I hope so too.” 

This was not all (hat Emily had hoped ; 
for. she meant to inquire how Mr. Edge- 
mount had afterwards explained the matter : 
and she was glad when the baronet made the 
same inquiry, on learning no such circum- 
stance had taken place, and that Mr. Edge- 
mount regarded it as a “ mere college trick,” 
a capital joke, that quizzed the young one, 
who was, in fact, “ merely a shopkeeper's 
son, sent up by granddada to cut a figure in 
future times as a village curate, for the edi- 
fication of brown-coated farmers and their 
white-aproned dames;” the roses fled, and 
sickness even of the heart succeeded. 

‘Could Frederic Tracy have done this?’ 
said Emily’s memory to her conscience ; and 
the answer was certainly very positively a 
negative : therefore Emily ceased to pursue 
the inquiry, but she did the next-wise thing 
to it ; she determined that on going to Lon- 
don to meet Mr. Stafford, she would consider 
the matter over there. It struck her, that in 
Richmond there was a confusion, a business, 
an interruption to recolleetion, which in 


156 


irjTEGRJTV. 


London she had never experienced. She was 
right; — ease and indulgence, the fulness of 
content, the enervation of pleasure, the se- 
ducing influence of passion, were all around 
her, and within her ; she had ceased to con- 
sider ; and the blandishment was so gentle, 
the influence apparently so little tainted by- 
ought that virtue could condemn or religion 
exclude, who could be surprised ? 

A train of thought was however now awa- 
kened, which, by recalling the memory of past 
days, marked her ingenuous countenance with 
a pensive character, which Lady Hornby 
wished to dissipate, and in ‘the evening they 
walked down to the water side, where the 
band were then playing I'he scene was 
singularly gay and beautiful, as the sun was 
declining, and threw his broad rays over the 
silver bosom of the river ; and Emily, who had 
kept very close all the evening to Sir Joshua, 
from a sense of reliance, and similarity of 
thinking to him, was descanting on its beau- 
ties, when she was suddenly interrupted by 
the jump of a fine grayhound from a boat, 
W'ho fawned upon her with such violence as 
nearly to throw her dowm. 

jMr. Edgemount struck the animal angrily, 
“ Oh ! dont strike him,” cried Emily, 
pray dont strike him ; — it is Sancho. Poor 
Sancho! poor fellow! pretty fellow! — So, 
so, Sancho ! — Ah ! I know you^ I do indeed ” 
The owner whistled, but it vain : Sancho 
could not leave his old friend, and even the 


UNTEGBITV. 


157 


IF 

owner seemed (on his being obliged to come 
on shore) loath to part them. 

“ Is the dog yours, Miss Shelburne?” said 
Mr. Edgemount. 

“No sir, — it is my cousin Tom’s; but we 
lived together, and of course he became very 
fond' of me.” 

“ Of course^ ma^am^^ said Mr. Edgemount, 
with an angry sneer, suddenly placing tlie 
arm of Lady Hornby within his own, leaving 
Sir Josliua to adjust the matter. This was 
not difficult; for the gentleman who owned 
the dog seemed perfectly willing to render 
Emily happy in any way ; and as she assured 
him she wished him to be taken home at pre- 
sent, poor Sancho was carried back ; but it was 
understood that whenever she claimed him, 
the owner was willing to relinquish him, and 
cards were exchanged for the furtherance of 
that object betwixt Sir Joshua and the gen- 
tleman, who it appeared was a Colonel 
Mortimer. 

Mr. Edgemount’s temper was evidently 
much ruffled by this incident, which also 
served greatly to depress the already dejected 
Emily, to whom Sancho had appeared as the 
representative of her whole family ; and al- 
though, with one exception, there was perhaps 
little to regret in them, yet from early asso- 
ciation all were important in her sight ; and 
towards Tom, in particular, she had ever felt ^ 
the affection of a sister; and from his extra- 
ordinary sufferings in consequence of his mo- 
. o 2 


158 


^^TEtiRITY. 


ther’s death, and the happy effect it appeared 
to have upon him, so far as she could judge, 
he was become yet more interesting to her 
than he had been in happier times; and the 
remembrance of their mutual sorrows, thus 
recalled, was exceedingly affecting to her. 

Sir Joshua seemed to enter into her* feel- 
ings ; for he neither noticed , her silence, or 
appeared to see the tears which, from time 
to time, swam in her eyes ; and therefore, as 
Mr. Edgemount declined entering the house, 
though he indicated an intention of doing so 
bye-and-bye, and there was no other company, 
she did not absent herself from the usual 
sitting-room, as it was probable she might be 
desired to play during the evening. 

W-hat a miserable walk has that unlucky 
animal caused to me,” said Lady Hornby, 
pettishly. 

“ I think you were to be pitied, indeed, 
my dear,” said Sir Joshua ; “ for Edmund 
certainly appeared in high dudgeon. I con- 
clude he was struck with sudden jealousy ; 
and certainly this Colonel Mortimer did eye 
Emily with no common interest, and is rather 
an alarming' looking rival: from his mourn- 
ing, and even his manners, 1 take him to be 
a widower, and by no means unlikely to make 
a fair lady love him ‘ for the sorrow he has 
passed.’*' ^ 

“ In the hasty glance I took of him, he 
struck me as a fashionable looking man, who 
had a veteran air. Put Edgemonnt's jealousy 


IiNTEGHIlY. 


159 


is directed to a much younger and handsomer, 
but certainly less attractive, man, — being no 
other than young Hastings.’’ 

“ Then I suppose he considered^ Sancho as 
his master’s representative, and envied even 
the glove upon her hand which patted his 
sleek sides V* 

“Even so; and though I told him that the 
poor young fellow was in positive poverty 
— that Emily had not heard from him fur 
some weeks — and that during almost three 
months he had not once called upon her, not- 
withstanding you had cordially invited him, 
I could make no impression. He spoke 
much of peo;#e living together, and oppor- 
tunities, and early jvtfections, and being de- 
signed for one another by parents, and all 
that; said, ‘that when a man sought only 
for a woman, not a fortune, he required a 
7vbole hearty and stri(d propriety of conduct 
muttered about low connections, and the wis- 
dom of not committing a man’s self ; and, in 
short, was mighty disagreeable, as all men 
are when in such vagaries.” 

“ And did you not take fire ? and ” 

“ Oh, no; I bore it with the spirit of a mar- 
tyr; — answered not only for Emily’s pure 
thoughts, but her first virgin affections ; her 


“ Oh ! dear Tiady Hornby, why — why did 
you condescend?” 

“ Hush, my dear Emily, and hear me out ; 
I said, ‘ that although as a mere child, her 


160 


INTEGRITY. 


mother engaged her, yet her own heart had 
no concern in it, and had long ceased to re- 
member even* the person of the ordinary boy 
in question ; — that the sons of her uncle’s 
who had robbed her of fortune, would never 
presume to enter the house of any gentleman 
who might raise her merit to the rank she 
had (in despite of her misfortunes) a right to 
hold ; and that I hoped ” 

“ You said too much by linlf, Lady Hornby.’* 

“Oh! sadly, sadlj",” cried Emily, bursting 
into tears. 

“Well!” exclaimed Lady Hornby, “this 
is very fine, truly ! Pray, what have I said as 
a negociant, which every 9 mother, aunt, 
guardian, or chaperon, ^is not saying on all 
sides of me, when they wish to help those 
who can’t help themselves 1 Are these times 
to throw away the chance of such a settle- 
ment as Edgemount gives a woman, at the 
very time when so many are trying to catch 
him ?” 

“ Ah ! there’s the rub. Lady Hornby ; — ^you 
have set your heart on carrying your point, 
and, in your zeal, forget (in my opinion) what 
is due to Emily’s feelings.’’ 

“ Perhaps you are right: perhaps, too, he is 
right in the assertion, that she is attached to 
Tom beyond the ties of consanguinity ; he 
says ‘that this very- Corning he saw him in 
handsome new mourning, seated on a coach, 
in Bond-street, which he thought was a Rich- 


iXT£GRITYi 


{Qi 

mond one, and it then struck him, he was 
coming here/ ” 

“ Does he then know my cousin said 
Emily, with an air of great surprise. 

“ He appears to know him very well ; and 
it seems has been long acquainted with your 
person, and even your voice ; and certainly 
knows your past situation exactly ; for, in 
speaking of Tom, he observed, ‘after the 
mother’s death, though he certainly left the 
house, he used to prowl about it, like a wolf 
about his prey.’ ” 

“ Rather like a shepherd about his flock,” 
said Emily, rising with a dignified air, as she 
added, “you have entered into most humi- 
liating explanations on my part madam, and 
I must beg of you now to inquire how a man 
in Mr. Edgernouut’s situation became ac- 
quainted with one so low in the world as ray 
poor cousin 7 If my suspicions are just ; if 
this gentleman is the unnamed person, whom 
Tom was continually guarding me against, 
as one who wished to take advantage of my 
unprotected situation and great distress, in 
consequence of having seen me in the shop 
where I sold my drawings, but whom my con 
fusion in so new and trying a situation pre- 
vented me from noticing, — if he be the man 
who conde^ended to mislead an ignorant 
youth, and tamper with that unformed prin- 
ciple he could at once use, and despise, — I 
beseech you to tell him, that although as a 
hneband T never even thought of my eonsin 


162 


INTEGRlTr. 


but with fear and disgust, yet I consider him 
infinitely his superior ; and that I would ra- 
ther lie down and die in the garret from 
which you drew me, than condescend to be- 
come his wife/’ 

As Emily ceased to speak, she sunk down 
on the nearest seat, for a moment ; but sud- 
denly recollecting Mr Edgemount might call, 
she rose, and Sir Joshua, leading her kindly 
to the door, entreated her to be assured “ he 
would make every proper inquiry but , 
Lady Hornby did not speak, and the cruelty 
of her silence fell hardly on the heart of poor 
Emily, Avho, although goaded to anger, and 
sensible that she was right in the expression 
* of her just indignation, yet felt her heart 
shaken to its inmost core, in her dread of all 
that would follow. She could not in the pre- 
sent ebullition of feeling, regret Mr, Edge- 
mount, but Lady Hornby was dear to her 
heart as a friend, and held by her in the light 
of a beloved benefactress ; and in any way to 
offend her, appeared the height of ingratitude 
in her ; but what rendered the crime far 
worse, was the probability there appeared of 
dividing in their opinions, and therefore in- 
juring deeply the connubial agreement of a 
couple, who, till now, had been singularly 
happy. This evil was the greater, because it 
was evident that a single reflection from 
Lady Hornby must for ever close every door 
upon her, by which the future means of sup- 
port to which she now determinately looked, 


IxSTEGRiXy. 


lOJ 


could be obtained ; and she knew, that though 
of an excellent disposition and general good 
temper, her ladyship often spoke unadvisedly, 
as the spoiled children of love and fortune 
are too apt to do. 

Harassed by fearful expectations, contra- 
dictory wishes, and sorrowful remembrances, 
Emily found her bed of down, (for this night) 
as she thought, the most uneasy she had ever 
passed ; — she felt herself again alone in a 
wide and stormy ocean, where the waves of 
the frightful past were scarcely less dreadful 
than the threatening future, and with a more 
acute sense than she had ever felt before. She 
now lamented the destruction of that plan of 
happiness her mother’s wishes and her own 
early love had ventured to build ; and her 
busy thoughts now made those comparisons 
between Tracy and Edgeinount from which 
she had lately fled. “ The one,” said she, “ is 
indeed gone for ever, and I may never find 
his equal ; but ought I haVe formed a single 
wish for so sacred a connection without seek- 
ing for some traits beyond the insinuating 
and the elegant 1 — But, alas ! my religion, 
my integrity, even my affections — those af- 
fections whose objects the grave ought rather 
to hallow than extinguish; — all, all were 
melting away in the sunshine of prosperity : 
— perhaps ‘it is good for me that 1 am af- 
flicted.’ ” 

It was now bright morning, and Emily 
arose, and throwing on a night-gown, looked 


IJSTEGKlTi'. 


out upon the fair face of nature, as if to seek 
in the calm stillness of ail around, somewhat 
to tranquilise her fevered mind ; nor did she 
look in vain, for she was led by degrees to 
pour out her sorrows in prayer, and to exer- 
cise her faith of guardianship for the future 
on that sure Helper who had led her through 
the past 

When Emily rose from her knees, being 
sensible that though more tranquil, she yet 
was incapable of sleeping, she partly dressed 
herself, and then once more took from her lit- 
tle drawing box the first, — last letter of Fre- 
deric Tracy. She read, and re-read his fer- 
vid assurance of unchanging affection, and his 
entreaty that she would consider him as a 
friend devoted to her welfare, even if she 
were tempted to renounce him as a lover; and 
in retracing all the proofs of his delicate at- 
tention to her welfare and her wishes, that 
ardent love which beamed in\is eyes and in- 
fluenced his every word and action, yet was 
controlled by that undeyiating love of justice 
which forbade him to obey even the virtuous 
passion which he was proud to profess; — 
when she recollected the proofs of his huma- 
nity, his intrepidity in early life, and how he 
advanced not only in the love but the esteem 
of all who knew him best, with advancing 
time, she felt as if she could live a vestal 
for her dead love’s sake,” for of his death she 
would not even allow herself to doubt, since, 
if not dead, his silence was base and crud^ 


IWTEGRITi'. 


1G5 


The tears of Emily fell freely from her 
eyes, as she thus renewed as it were her first 
sorrows as a lover ; but yet they relieved not 
her heart, and her dread of descending to the 
breakfast-table was so great, that though sen- 
sible it grew late, she would still have delay- 
ed if she ha’d not been summoned by Lady 
Hornby^s maid, when she suddenly put the 
torn relic into her bosom, and hastened down 
stairs. 

Lady Hornby was not in the breakfast 
parlour^ and as Emily entered. Sir Joshua 
vanished by an opposite door, without even 
ofiering her the usual salutation : her heart 
sunk still lower, but it throbbed violently 
w hen the servant said “ that Mr. Edgemount 
was at that time above in conversation with 
his lady.” 

A thousand times Emily endeavoured to 
command the universal trepidation which 
seized her, but could not be obeyed ; yet she 
was sensible that now she had for ever closed 
all intercourse with Mr. Edgemount; the 
night before, she had wished for her omi 
sake, that she might prove mistaken in her 
surmises ; she now only desired it for hist and 
that on the common principles of charily, for 
as severe sorrow had driven out the tender 
remembrances of her early regret, when it 
could no longer feed on hope, so had the 
late storm apparently blown down the airy 
fabric of a more ardent, perhaps, but far less 
enduring, passion ; and all of hope or fear 
P 


166 


liNTEGRlTY. 


which now agitated her spirits, was that 
which belonged to her friendship and her de- 
pendence. 

“ Good morning, Miss Shelburne,’^ said 
Lady Hornby, as she entered in a kind of 
awkward hal^graciousness ; “ pray, what have 
you done with Sir Joshua V* 

“ Sir Joshua left the room as I entered it, 
ma’am.” 

Um-m-in — without speaking?” 

“ Without speaking.” 

‘^Um-m!! |I did not think he would have 
done that ; that is keeping a threat too close- 
ly. I must bring him about. I must coax a 
little, that’s certain.” 

As Lady Hornby spoke, she passed through 
the door into the garden, to seek her husband, 
and was soon seen returning with him, pass- 
ing her arm through his, and looking in his 
face with those “ wTithed smiles,” which gave 
to her animated features the very character 
of the Euphrosync; but their general influ- 
ence was not perceptible. The husband was 
very grave. 

If was plain they had been quarrelling, and 
that Emily had been the subject of dispute. 
If the silence of the preceding evening inflict- 
ed a pang from the lady, that of the gentle- 
man was now scarcely less afflictive; but it 
was evident that her ladyship had recovered 
her good humour, and it was well known that 
all would shortly yield to the influence of it, 
even before she began to open her mission. 


ISTEGRITY. 


167 


“Well, good people, I have had an inter- 
view with the delinquent, and am prepared to 
open the pleadings of the court.” 

“ Pray proceed ; the sooner the business is 
dispatched the better,” said Sir Joshua, “ for 
I have an engagement at a distance.” 

Lady Hornby was suddenly silent, she co- 
loured, set down her tea cup, and it was evi- 
dent the tears were in her eyes ; but she ral- 
lied, and continued to say, with great volu- 
bility, 

“ \Vell ! I must come to the point, for it is 
of great importance, as you say, and will wind 
up in the novel kind of way; certes it is, 
that our good cousin did see a ’distressed 
damsel, on whom he cast an ejre of love — 
yes! love.) and who was a temptation to him, 
by reason — ” 

“ A temptation to him 

“ Certainly ! by being herself an object on 
which temptation might be supposed to work : 
— moreover, she was one from her retired- 
ness, her devoteduess to an old aunt, and 
numberless other peculiarities, which bespoke 
her innocence, her humility, her tenderness 
and, in fact, (nonsense apart) are not all these 
things actual temptations to a man, especially 
when combined with superior education ? — do 
not they all promise him precisely the com- 
])anion he wishes for his hours of leisure ? 
Nay, Sir Joshua, don’t purse up your lip in 
that way ; we ought to look at both sides of 
the question. Was it likely that Edgemount,. 


168 


INTEGRITY. 


with his person, fortune, expectations, and 
prospects, should have run after a young wo- 
man, situated as poor Emily was, with an^ 
matrimonial view V* 

“ I dont say he should ; but I assert-—’’ 

“ Well, well, now hear me out. From the 
hour she same under your protection, his 
views were ever honourable ; but his mind 
was not, could not, be easily made up, and 
he therefore sought to gain a decided interest 
in her heart, before he ventured to disclose 
himself, and likewise to wean her more deci- 
dedly from what he terms her lorv connec- 
tions, though 1 told him 'twas an unfair term, 
for the Hastings’ were a good family : but to 
come to the close of my speech, 1 am free to 
declare, as you members say, that without let, 
hindrance, or molestation, Edmund Edge- 
mount, Esq. of Edgemount Manor, Salop, 
doth hereby now fully offer his hand and for- 
tune to Emily Shelburne. 

■» . * * * * 

“ Silence on the lady’s part : — so I conclu- 
ded,— for silence is the maiden’s consent.” 

“ Then she must be silent ho longer,” said 
Emily, tremblingly, yet with an air of resolu- 
tion. “ I am so positvely certain, that Mr. 
Edgemount is a man whom I could not hon- 
our, that no consideration on earth should in- 
diice me to promise him obedience.” 

“ Hear him, Emily, hear him ; no lips can 
plead for a lover like his own : had you seen 
the air'of penitence he wore, the expression 


^ INTEGRITY. 


169 


I of sorrow on his fine countenance, I am sure 
you would have felt it; you have not said you 
I could not lote him ; and depend upon it, in * 
a woman’s love lies all the honour and obedi- 
ence which ‘influence her as a wife ; in her 
case the words of Scripture apply closely, 
that ‘ love is the fulfilling of the law.’ ” 

“ Then let me add, and I add it firmly, un- 
hesitatingly, 1 could not love him, for every 
species of fraud, subterfuge, and injustice, is 
abhorrent to my nature ; to say nothing of 
cruelty and vice. No, no, I have my eyes 
open, and know what 1 can endure and what 
I cannot. With a good man I could eat the 
bread of labour, and creep into the roofless 
shed of poverty without a murmur, for I should 
trust to sharing his society in another and a 
bp/tter world ; but with a bad man, the very 
blessings I partook with him would be turn- 
ed to gall.” 

“Ah, ’tis fine talking, child! but hear him 
at all events ; you can hear him speak, you 
know.” 

“ Pardon me, Lady Hornby, if I say I will 
not hear him. I will not wound my own feel- 
ings by submitting to hear allusions made to 
intentions which ought not to sully the mind 
of a young woman ; on this point I have suf- 
fered enough ; and as, like Jenny Deans, I 
w'ould not marry him ‘ for aw the land within 
the grip o’ the rainbow,’ so it is my most ear- 
nest desire, that the whole affair may vanish 
from iny mind like the rainbow and leave 

V 2 


170 


INTEGRITY. 


me to the quiet darkness of that path in whicii 
God hath placed rne.” 

“ Well ! if you continue in these heroics, 
I grant that is the best way ; for, certainly, 
Wr. Edgemount is our relative f distant ’tis 
true ; but then he is our friend; and really, to 
say the truth, though it is a wrong thing, a 
iTri/ wrong thing, for men to be guilty in the 
way they are, yet what can be done ? We can- 
not shut our door on such people, without ab- 
solutely excluding all society. A man in 
such a case would never have a pistol out of 
his hand, and a woman — what can a woman 
do ?” 

“Julia! Julia!” cried Sir Joshua in great 
emotion, ‘'do not allow these shallow no-rea- 
sons so to impose upon your understanding ; 
j-ou know perfectly well, that in the present 
situation of society, women can do every 
thing. The selfish libertine, who bends to no 
principle, listens to no sermon, obeys ‘ no 
compunctious visiting of conscience,* would 
yet shrink from the frown of a woman of 
fashion, nor dare to intrude in the pure cir- 
cle with which she may always surround her- 
self. Much has been done of late years, by 
which, as a people, our vices are rendered less 
obtrusive ; but much remains to do, and, in 
ray opinion, women, who from their personal 
xattractioDS, rank, and fortune, become leaders 
in society, have an awful duty to perform, — 
a responsibility to which their children and 
their country have a right to call their daily 


INTEGMifr. 


171 


attention, , It is theirs to weed the garden of 
polished society, and keep its flowers uncon- 
taminated by noxious associations, — to dis- 
tinguish between him who honours their sex, 
(and the laws which protect its weakness,) 
and him who, in injuring one, degrades you 
all. Emily, as a girl, is justifiable, amiable, 
in shrinking from those observations which 
readily offer themselves to every person of 
honour and feeling ; but the married woman, 
withojit courting publicity by a parade of vir- 
tue, should yet never allow its infringement 
even in thought, without decidedly pointing 
her anathema against the offence ; and in such 
a duty, how great is the reward ! The indig- 
nant frown not only punishes sin, but pre- 
vents crime ; not only guards the victim, but 
the seducer, by arming him against himself, 
and compelling him to consider.’’ 

Lady Hornby listened as one “not un- 
wrung,” but in a low voice said something 
about “ men being only men.” 

“ True, Lady Hornby, only men vve all are, 
and must be, in this world ; we shall never 
be angels ; and all I contend for, is, that your 
sex should prevent us from being devils ; and 
when we are so, not caressing us as superior 
beings, which is perpetually the case. It has 
been my pride — the honest joy of my heart, 
^to believe, and, in some instances to witness, 
the noble scorn of generous indignation illu- 
mine your countenance on those occasions. 
Don’t you remember my saying to you at 


INTEGRITY'. 


1'7j2 

Lady Austin’s rout, ‘ Twenfy sucli women as 
you, Julia, would restore us the purity of Eli- 
zabeth’s court?’ — When 1 compare the exul- 
tation with which my heart honoured you at 
that moment, with the sensa'ion which op- 
pressed my mind whilst you addressed Emily 
about Edgemount, I cannot wonder that I 
speak warmly. I have been, Julia, too happy 
to be calm, — too fond to be indifferent about 
one thought of yours.” 

Lady Hornby threw her arms about her 
husband’s neck, and wept. Emily sought her 
own apartment, and wept also ; she was 
thankful that the late scene was over, and 
especially that the wife she tenderly loved, 
and the husband she truly honoured, were in 
the way for reconciliation ; but she saw clear- 
ly that her “ pleasant home” would be so no 
longer; that Sir Joshua was either estranged 
from her, or, what seemed more probable, 
afraid of giving her the support his principles 
and his good will sincerely accorded her; 
in her perplexity she referred to Mr. Staf- 
ford’s letter, determining to get aid from him 
in seeking a future home ; at the same time 
she considered it an act of justice to herself, 
to write to her relation, Mr. Shelburne, being 
not without hopes that he would desire her to 
join him at Nice; and in the present solici- 
tude of her mind, she felt that desire to fly 
from the scene of her troubles, which is al- 
ways the first wish of a perplexed and wound- 
ed spirit. 


INTEGRITY. 


173 


It, was one consolation to find that Mrs, 
Stafford was with her husband ; for she wa-s 
a motherly woman, and dear to her aunt ; and 
as they were in London by that time, sh^ 
saw no reason why slie should not go in the 
morning, or even then. “ I could sleep,” 
said she, “ after such a wearisome night, in 
my own poor bed in Westminster ‘ fake 
physic, pomp,’ is, perhaps, (he wisest lan- 
guage I could hold to myself, for I cannot 
help feeling as if another great change were 
hanging over me. — Oh ! that, like my aunt, I 
could say with a confiding soul, * Thy will 
be done !* ” , 


17H 


l.'fTKGRlTY, 


CHAPTER XL 

Emilt found that Lad}' Hornby was denied 
to all visitors, and (hat Sir Joshua’s usual 
ride was postponed a full hour; but when she 
saw from her window, which looked upon the 
road, (hat he had really set out, she deter- 
mined on seeking his lady, and consulting 
with her on the propriety of fulfilling her 
intention ; but whilst she sought a night-cap 
to put in her reticule, Lady Hornby entered 
the room. 

“Well, my dear, , I have dismissed your 
lover, satisfied my liege lord, and — my own 
conscience, (shall I say ?) — yes ! my con- 
science, for I have one, after all ; I wrote to 
the lover, saying, ‘ that as a faithful ambassa- 
dress, I had reported his generous offer to 
Miss Shelburne, represented his sorrow for 
the past, his hopes for the future, but that my 
young friend had honoured herself, and gra- 
tified me, by firmly declining an union incon- 
sistent with her ideas,^ &cc. &i:c. &;c.'*’ 

‘‘ So perish my hopes of cutting a figure in 
the annals of Richmond — ‘ confounding the 

[)olitics’ of the Uow.ager, and ’* 

“ And — according to your belief and the 
warm wishes of your kind lieart, making me 
happy, for that was in truth your motive — 
but I entreat you to be easy, dear Lady 
Hornby.’^ 


liNTEGRlTY. 


17^ 


“ Tiiat is impossible ; I am wretched, and 
deserve to be so : sit down, I have used you 
ill — unkindly I will not say ; I will do so no 
more, for I know myself to be a frail vessel, 
and very subject to ooze out in wrong places ; 
but I will give you your revenge, less, how- 
ever, to give justice to you, than to solicit 
compassion f(W myself.” 

Emily tried to call up her courage ; she 
felt that a new attack would be made upon 
her, and in a way she could least withstand ; 
for the countenance of Lady Hornby was 
really full of sorrow and anxiety, and there 
was something irresistibly affecting in the 
grief of one wdiose general character was so 
buoyant, and whose gaiety passed with elec- 
tric influence through every circle animated 
by her presence. 

“You must perceive,” said Lady Hornby, 
‘Mhat Sir Joshua is very particular, almost, 
indeed, to a fault ; but then there are so 
many excellent qualities about him ; he has 
so generous a teiAper; so good a heart : but 
to the point. When we took our late trip 
to France, (in which ’(is but bare justice to 
say he left nothing undone that could add to 
my pleasure,) he yet most pertinaciously in- 
sisted on one point, which was (as you may 
suppose) that no consideration should induce 
me to bring oyer any thing contraband. He 
said, ‘ that — ’ but why should I trouble you 
or myself with his reasons ? — ’tis enough that 
I heard all, agreed with all, and promised im- 


176 


liNTlCGRJTy. 


plicit obedience : an obedience the more easy, 
because 1 was supplied, of course, with 
abundance during my slay. Well, Emily, 
after all this, I am a melancholy proof that 
temptation may be resisted nine times, yet 
prove fatal the tenth. After traversing half 
France, it was my lot to meet the first temp- 
ter, like Eve, the first time I left my Adam’s 
side, and in the form of a lace dress, that 
could be compressed into no possible room. 
At Boulogne did I spend my last louis ; and 
what was ten limes worse, forfeit my pro- 
mise. The misery the thing gave me, the 
consciousness that I could not wear it, with- 
<^t as many fibs as there were pin-holes, 
rendered my first punishment quite sufficient, 
and I determined to sell it immediately on 
our arrival in town, to some of my friends 
On landing at Margate various discoveries 
were made condemnatory to our fellow pas- 
sengers, but in our luggage was no forbidden 
fruit : at this time the examinations were very 
strict, and some ladies held their reticules 
with trembling hands, as they became fearful 
not only those little repositories, but even 
their persons, w ould be searched. Sir Joshua 
stood guard over me, with an air of defiance 
as to the latter, and with the proud frankness 
of perfect ease as to the former ; he held 
out his hand to rec'eive the bag from me. 
Oh ! the horrors of the moment ! — Never 
did I wish before for the invention of a stage 
Abigail ; and my ow n, whom, by-the by, I did 


INTEtiUITr. 


nr 

not trust, was at a distance. Luckily, inost 
luckily! a woman near me, with a child in 
her arms, became suddenly faint ; I withdrew 
my half-extended arm, hastened to assist the 
child, and in doing so, managed to throw the 
reticule into the sea; the silver in my purse 
carried it <lown, and my lightened heart 
sprung up again.” 

“ It was certainly a very happy loss,” ob- 
served Emily. 

“ True, my dear ; but it carried better than 
three hundred pounds with it, which I could 
never by any after-management make up, and 
it is utterly impossible for me to confess my 
fault to Sir Joshua now ; not only because of 
iny first error, but because I have since then 
suffered him to praise me on this very ac- 
count, — an act of disingenuousness his very 
soul would abhor; though, God knows, my 
sufferings were quite enough to expiate the 
sin. Oh, Emily I depend upon it there is no 
dread so poignant as the dread of disgrace ; 
no possible misery like that of infamy.” 

“I believe it, my lady ; your concluding 
words are an excellent comment on the 
doctrines of Sir Joshua 'on another case of 
delinquency.” 

“ Very true, I know it all — I feel it all ; sin 
and shame are, oi* ought to be, inseparable 
companions; but so ought power and mercy. 
1 have thrown myself, in all the naked misery 
of my error and my wants, upon you. I know 
you will not betray my secret, for my cpn- 


liNTEGRJ.TY. 


iia 

fidence equally binds your honour and your 
humanity ; and no woman living can have 
more of either. But can you — will you help 
me with money ? If you do not, you are cruel, 
nay, wijust ^ since, but for you, I could have 
commanded it from Edmund; he at least—’’ 

‘‘Dear, dear Lady Hornby, do not for a 
moment even think of such a thing. I will 
do any thing — every thing in my power; I 
will borrow it for you : but tell me how much, 
or rather how little will do ” 

“ I can manage with less than two hundred 
pounds ; but I must have more than one 
immediately.” 

“Well — pray be easy; I will go to London 
to-night; to-morrow morning 1 will see Mr. 
Stafford, and do all that I can. I doubt not 
he will help me to save you from pain. I 
may venture on such a debt as this.” 

■“ Oh no ! go to-morro\^ ; you are ill, you 
are not able to go, dear Emily I shall have 
youp death to answer for. I would^ much 
rather -you should stay, and in the course of 
the evening talk freely about your errand 
(which I have, indeed, already named) ; but 
mention no money-matters direct,— that is, 
name no sum. Ah! how continually do 
those who merit suspicion suspect it ; you 
know what I mean, Emily ; do not throw 
your own affairs too open ; lest it should do 
so eventually by mine : — in what a state have 
I placed myself !” 

“I had better go,” said Emily, shaking her 


INTKGRITY. 


.179 


head, for I know that I cannot look a lie, 
much less act one : there is not a spark of the 
equivocating, or even the manoeuvring, in my 
composition.’’ 

“Very true, child; I know the sensation 
exactly ; you shall go. Stokes shall attend 
you, — or would you rather have the house- 
maid ?” 

“ I will have neither. You have already 
spoiled me, dear Lady Hornby ; I must go 
and take a new lesson, by returning to old 
lodgings.” 

A sandwich was soon taken. Stokes at- 
tended Emily to the coach, who chewed the 
cud of many bitter fancies as it bore her from 
the scene of past pleasures to the scene of past 
penury and sorrow. On reaching Bond-street 
she alighted, and after making some little 
purchases at a tea-dealer’s, proceeded to 
WestJiinster. 

As a cry of sorrow had marked her parting, 
so a joyful scream of exultation from the 
younger ones marked her return, and Mrs. 
Betty with her father, seemed to enjoy the 
honour as well as the pleasure of her visit, 
saying, ‘ We knew, ma’am, as how you would 
be coming, becase of the letter ; and that 
made us not send it to Mr. Thomas. Sally, 
fetch the letter down stairs; it ha’ been here 
these three days.” '/ 

“ Then you see my cousin sometimes?” 

“ Oh ! yes ma’am'; he have looked in se- 
veral times; but he cannot abide to go up 


1^0 


INTEWRITY. 


stairs since you be gone; it makes him fret 
as bad as ever ; but I can’t say but he looks 
purely ; don’t you think so yourself ?” 

“ I have never seen him since I left you, 
and not even heard of him for six weeks.” 

“ I^auk ! how odd ! why, he said, last Mon- 
day, he was going down on purpose to see 
you, Miss. Then, I suppose, you don’t know 
that his brother died down in the country ; 
and he has been, poor young man, to bury 
him : — there is no end of some people’s 
misfortunes.” 

?*^o end, indeed, thought Emily, of those 
whi6h have fallen on my family, as she gave 
a sigh to the memory of him who had brought 
them all upon his house, in the ambitious 
activity and deficient principle he had evinced: 
and it was some minutes before she could 
open the letter, which she perceived to be 
from Mrs. Hastings, the widow. 

In this letter the writer apologised for her 
last: she said she was then trembling for the 
life of her chihhen, and in her anxiety to 
procure aid for them, lost every other consi- 
deralion ; — that the period of her anxiety had 
been long and severe, as regarded her son, 
but he was now happily restored, and she 
felt it her first wish as well as duty, to beg 
that Miss Shelburne would appropriate the 
next interest to her own use. 

This letter cheered the spirits of Emily, 
for she had no objection to accept an accom- 
modation she felt to be her due ; and (he idea 


ii'jriitiRiTi. 


131 


■of assisting Lady Hornby was sweet to her 
heart, and rendered her humble fare pleasant^ 
and her hard couch the seat of refreshing 
sleep; so that she was enabled to see her 
country friends, (he ytaffords, with more 
composure of spirits than she had lately en- 
joyed, and consult with them as to her future 
plan of life, and what was of more immediate 
consequence, the disposition of the money. 

“ That is already done. I have boug^it iii 
stock for you, my dear, and cleared you 
seventy-eight pounds nine shillings, whicb,^ 
with the interest up to this day, amounting to 
forty-five pounds fourteen shillings, I have 
sealed in this paper, for I wished to spare all 
trouble, as we have much to talk about, much 
to hear, respecting our old friend Mrs. Hast- 
ings.” 

Emily’s heart beat quick as she received 
this money, and she eagerly ejaculated, “ Ah I 
how rich I am ! — I only want fifty pounds 
now to — ” 

“ If I had known you wanted an odd 
hundred or so, I could easily have managed 
that for you ; but I knew that yon had no one 
to advise you, and having a fine opportunity 
to purchase stock, I thought it my duty.” 

You were kind and right in all you did, 
and I sincerely thank you, and will hold ray- 
self still more your debtor, if you will enable 
me to place this money, which I hold in trust, 
out of my own power, so that, if trials liko 
the past should arise, I mav not be tempted 
^ 2 


IN-'rKGUlTY. 


ia2 

above what i may at that time be able to 
bear.” 

This led to explanations which surprised 
them, and was followed by details which rent 
their hearts, but which led to happy results; 
as Mr. Stafford, in his admiration of Emily’s 
principles, and his compassion for her situa- 
tion, was induced to set out on a journey of 
inquiry amongst the creditors of her uncle, 
of whose affairs and existence she was in 
total ignorance. 

When Emily found that she must stay 
another night in London, she felt even her 
possessions burdensome, and could not forbear 
writing a line to Lady Hornby, entreating 
her to come to town for a single day, adding 
that she could not choose a dress without her. 
This ruse was innocent, but it cost her a sigh, 
for it was connected with sad thoughts, from 
which she was drawn by Mr. Stafford. 

“Dear, dear! what a pity it is that ever 
you went to Richmond, Miss Shelburne! I 
have been running from pillar to post the last 
two hours, but all to no purpose, to catch your 
cousin William, who, it seems, made his ap- 
pearance on ’Change yesterday, and left the 
house of just before I entered.” 

“ I know very little of William, but am 
anxious about his father, to the greatest de- 
gree : did you hear of him, sir ?” 

“ I did, and so would you, if you had not 
been out of the way. The old man has sent 
Ihrge remittances, and paid his creditors two- 


INTEGRITY, 


183 


thirds of their demand. I understand that 
each person was specified as to the money 
(or in some cases, property) remitted, but no 
mention whatever made of you — a most ex- 
traordinary proceeding: some steps ought to 
be taken immediately on your behalf.” 

“ Let us see William first, my dear sir ; — > 
he may have letters that will explain why I 
was omitted.” 

“ I believe we shall be obliged to do so, 
because I have no clue how to claim ; and I 
fear, indeed, all is gone ; much has been done, 
as it is, considering the time ; and with care, 
doubtless, all will prove eventually good for 
them^ but you have been every way infamously 
treated: however your bond is good yet, — 
that is my comfort. I shall take care the 
money remains in your name, and my advice 
is, see a little farther yet.” 

“ I am willing to do so, for I hope I shall 
see Mr. Hastings come back, and resume his 
own guardianship. Poor man ! I feel assured 
he is doing his best now for me ; — I can trust 
him ; for though he did wrong in relying on 
James, nothing could be farther from his 
wishes, or more averse to his intentions, than 
injuring me ; he will come back fully to re- 
deem his character, and die in honour and 
peace among his own people and family, I 
sincerely hope.” 

The longer Emily thought on these subjects 
the more anxious she became to see William ; 
but before it was possible for Mr. vStatford to 


184 


iJSTEGRlTY. 


find him, Lady Hornby’s footman brought 
her a note written the night before, and dis- 
patched with that rapidity which generally 
characterised the lady’s movements. 

** Dear Emily, — Come to Dover-street the 
moment you receive this, for there will I be 
to meet you. Think nothing of me (entendez- 
vous,) but come directly ; I have something 
very strange and very sad to tell you about 
your cousin James. — Tom is now with us ; — 
I like him very much. Yours, &.c. 

J. H.” 

Emily could not be sorry for this summons, 
for her heart ached with impatience to lay her 
little offering before her friend; she also 
wished to see poor Tom (who now seemed 
more than ever her only relation,) but she ap- 
prehended that the circumstances of James’s 
death, as alluded to by Lady Hornby, being 
already known to her, were of less moment 
than the sight of William would be ; but hav- 
ing arranged with Mr. Stafford how he might 
see her, she obeyed the summons, and reach- 
ed Sir Joshua’s house only a few minutes be- 
fore the arrival of its mistress, who had sat 
down her husband and visitant at the entrance 
to the Park. 

“ Here is something,” said Emily, laying 
down her little package, “ and I hope to make 
it more ere long. Mr. Stafford is very kind, 
and I have good news from poor uncle Hast- 
ings.” 


JNTEGRITY. 


1^5 


Lady Hornby took the^ money, but she did 
not smile, as she pressed the hand which pre- 
sented it ; on the contrary, Emily thought 
her eyes were suffused with tears, and they 
were not those of pleasure. 

“ Sit down, my love ; have you heard that 
James is dead?’’ 

“ I have, and dread to learn in what man- 
ner he left the world ; will you tell me?” 

“ He suffered a great deal from losing his 
arm, which at length threw him into a decline; 
but not conceiving himself in danger, did not 
inform his brother in time for him to see him 
alive. He had, poor man, laboured indefa- 
tigably in his affairs tnany months, and un- 
questionably hastened his death by his ex- 
ertions: he was pitied, and even respected 
in Liverpool, for his strenuous endeavours to 
make reparation for the f)ast.” 

“ Poor man !” said Emily, wiping her eyes, 
“ he could do no more ; — may God forgive 
him !’* 

“ I hope you will not recall that word, 
though his cruelty to you went beyond the 
robbery of fortune.” 

“ What can you mean, dear Lady Hornby? 
He said so himself, but — ’’ 

“ In his box were found these five letters 
to you ; every seal is unbroken; — there w^as 
honour even in his treachery ; — doubtless it 
w as done with a view of securing you to him- 
self, or his brother.” 

Emily arose; she gazed upon the letters,- 


186 


INTEGRITY. 


she beheld the hand-writing over which she 
had so lately wept. — Frederic Tracy, the be- 
loved, the lamented, seemed to rise from the 
grave, and gaze upon her with looks of love 
tind sorrow unutterable, that said, “ Oh 1 how 
have 1 suffered ’’ 

So horror-struck, so bewildered were the 
eyes of Emily, that Lady Hornby was terrified 
by their expression ; and she sought, by even 
exciting acute sorrow, to recall the powers of 
that reason which seemed suspended. 

“ Let us read these letters, Emily.” — 

“ No, no , — I cannot read them ; they come 
from the grave to me ; they are full of re- 
proaches, — they say I sent him thither, — /, 
who would at this very moment share it with 
him. Oh, James, James! you have driven 
me mad I I remember, now, — I well remem- 
ber my uncle saying that somebody had seen 
Tracy at Antigua, and he looked very ill, — 
yes ! yes ! — well might he look ill, when she 
who was his whole world had forsaken him, — 
had left him to struggle with difficulties, to 
perform the most noble duties, (in defiance, 
perhaps, of other duties,) to suffer reproach 
where he merited eulogium, to destroy his 
dearest hopes, yet persist in his integrity ; — 
was this a heart<'to be torn and crushed ? — to 
be forsaken and forgotten by the daughter of 
such a mother as mine 1 — Oh ! no, no, no ; 
his heart, that generous, noble heart, has 
been broken, and apparently by me; — by me, 
whom he esteemed so much too highly 


liVlEGRIl'Y. Ib7 

me! whose very peace he would have died to 
preserve !” 

As poor Emily thus raved in the agony 
of a sorrow which bore no control, she hur- 
ried up and down the room with frantic steps, 
which Lady Hornby could not check, till 
opening one of the letters, she began to read, 
and her tears flowed freely ; which, when 
Emily perceived, she at last stopped, and 
listened to the anxious inquiries, the tender 
pleadings of the young lover : and she, too, 
= wept long and bitterly, with a subdued and 
tranquilised sorrow; but from time to time, 
the same terrible ebulitions arose, and the 
least word of comfort irritated her gentle 
spirit beyond endurance. 

“You do not know what he w'as,’^ she 
would cry ; “ you know not the firmness and 
the mildness of his nature, nor the discipline 
to which he subjected himself, that he might 
prove his own strength for the trials before 
him. Oh ! how much more do I value his 
virtues now, than I could do then ; for I now 
know that he stood alone, — that his heart 
w'as moulded by the best of mothers, for the 
kindest purpose. What did he think of me ? 
— what could be think ?” 

“Yet, there is no reproach in these letters, 
Emily.*’ 

“ Ob, no ; he pitied me, even while he 
despised me. — He w’ould not reproach the 
child of her whom he honoured so much ; 
and perhaps, he became poo?’, and therefore 


188 


INTEGRITY. 


thought I shrunk from an early, imprudeiil: 
choice ; yet he knew that I had told him, if 
his last shilling went to pay his father^s 
debts, my last shilling should be shared with 
him ; — doubtless he considered me a child, 
a toy : — perhaps he might even be made 
wretched by thinking that Tom could rival 
him; — perhaps ” • 

“ Sit down, my dear girl ; sit down, and 
call your reason, your religion, to your aid ; 
you have already suffered much, and endured 
bravely ; do not allow a mind which has re- 
ceived the last sigh of her last friend to be 
overcome even with the loss a lover.” 

‘‘ ’Tis not the loss of a lover, — ’fis the 
murder of a lover; — ’tis the rending that 
blessing from his heart, which was his sole 
support, his sweet reward ; — ’tis the destroy- 
ing his confidence, that distracts me.” 

“ ’I'is very terrible, I grant ; such things 
often drive men to dissipation and vice, who 
else would never have thought of it; but even 
if that should be the case, you are perfectly 
innocent.” 

“That is not the case,” said Emily, firmly; 
“ Frederic may have left his situation in life; 
he may have entered the army, and sought 
in variety a change of torment: but to tliis 
hour, if he lives, his heart has been lonely, 
his conduct upright — He has sougiit no friend, 
— he has listened to no adviser : in humble 
desolation of soul, he has awaited from his 
ti.od dismissal from the burthen of existence, 


INTEGKlTr. 


189 


and employed all his injured faculties, and 
blighted energy, in pursuing justice, and prac- 
tising benevolence — I know he has.” 

“ In that knowledge there is consolation, 
my dear Emily ; and at any rate, we should 
remember, that time has now soothed his 
sorrows, if he lives ; and should your fears 
be realized ” 

Emily shook her head ; she felt like the 
mother who exclaims, “ Thou talk’st to me, 
who never had a child !” But she became 
aware that her violence had alarmed Lady 
Hornby, who was experiencing for her the 
most painful sympathy ; she corrected the 
emotion of a heart that swelled to bursting; 
she clasped her dear friend to her bosom, 
and promised to submit even to this ; but na- 
ture was too powerful, and for the first time 
in her life, she fell into violent hysterics. 

A physician was immediately procured, 
who ordered her to be bled, and prescribed 
anodynes to prevent fever ; and when Sir 
Joshua and young Hastings arrived to dinner 
(which was ordered early in order to facili- 
tate their return to Richmond,) they found 
the house in confusion and Lady Hornby in 
the utmost distress, which was particular!/ 
vexatious, because Sir Joshua’s good-natured 
countenance was dilated with pleasure, and 
he was anxious to tell his lady how success- 
ful he had been in getting recruits for her 
breakfast, to supply the loss of Edgeraount, 
R 


190 


INTEGRITY. 


and Ihe friends whom he had taken to 
Brighton. 

“ I cannot talk of breakfasts now. Emily 
is far more affected than I ever believed her 
steady gentle nature was cajiable of : she 
believes poor Tracy is dead, and thinks, of 
course, he held her as — ” 

“ Oh! that is all nonsense ; we all know 
that men have died, and worms have — ” 

“ Sir Joshua, this is no time for jest; read 
those letters- — only read them, and see what 
she has lost in this»excellent young man.’* 

Lady Hornby returned to Emily, and Sir 
Joshua did read them, and sympathised with 
them ; he traced throughout the noblest senti- 
ments, the purest thoughts, the most devoted 
tenderness; and in all that they related of 
passing events, actions, and expectations, 
saw that Frederic Tracy was steadily pur- 
suing, but often with great difficulty, the ob- 
ject of his voyage ; and that he entertained 
reasonable hopes of so disposing of his pro- 
perty, as to enable him to discharge his late 
father’s debts, and leave himself something, 
which, if placed in some resjiectable connec- 
tion, might render him eligible to marrying 
Emily. As the letters continued, and com- 
plained of her silence, and guessed the va- 
rious causes which might have produced it, 
the supposition of her having formed ano- 
ther engagement, only produced in him an as- 
surance that he would never cross her path 


INTEGRITY. 


191 


ill person through life ; but that his ^end- 
ship was inviolably hers, to be claimed by 
her, and her children after her, — ^an assur- 
ance that, in professing the constancy of his 
own attachment, he meant no charge against 
the mutability of hers, for he remembered 
her extreme youth, the advantages which per- 
sonal intercourse bestowed, and the influence 
of her friends, who knew, w'ere adverse to 
his wishes : all he intreated W'as, to know 
the extent of his misfortune, that he might 
with the more diligence seek help from that 
Power which could alone support him under 
an affliction so severe and irreparable.” 

So deeply were the feelings of Lady Horn- 
by excited tow^ards her young friend, that she 
did not leave her for a moment, till (in con- 
sequence of the medicines given to her) poor 
Emily dropt into a profound sleep, when 
she repaired to the drawing-room, where she 
expected t5 find the two gentlemen, who had 
dined together, and of course given up all 
thoughts of Richmond. Sir Joshua was just 
folding the last of these long and sorrowful 
epistles, in the same paper where they had 
been found, on which was WTitten with a 
shaking hand, “ Poor Emily’s letters.” 

“ What have you done with Mr. Thomas, 
my dear.” 

“ Tom is, I believe, gone to visit a lady 
who is in the high road to make him a happy 
man, by the possession of her own pretty lit- 
tle f»erson, and her pretty large estate in 


192 


INTEGRITY. 


Hampshire ; an estate in which, I understand, 
there is game in abundance, to the great joy 
of both ►^ncho and his master.’’ 

“ You surprise me much — I cannot say 
please, for my heart is too heavy to be pleas- 
‘ ed with any thing.” 

“ It is a good and dear heart, even in its 
heaviness ; and having beguiled me of many 
a dull hour, has a right to demand attention 
in turn. You recollect, my dear, that Tom 
told us he heard on the coach, that Emily 
was about to be married to Edgemount, and 
fearful of occasioning her any uneasiness, he 
delayed calling upon her till he had ascer- 
tained the truth of the report ; and thence 
learnt, whether he should or should not re- 
new her early recollections of poor Tracy. 
It now appears that the intervening time was 
spent at East-Sheen, to very good purpose, 
as he gained courage, on the strength of a 
new coat, and a newly-received legacy, to 
make a declaration of love to a lady whom 
he has known for several months, but whom 
he never could have had the courage to ad- 
dress, but for those inspiring circumstances.” 

And have you really seen her ?” 

“ I have ; she is a very petite figure, with 
a pretty face; a kind of pocket Venus, who 
doubtless looks upon the tall athletic form 
of our young friend, as a proper protector 
to so exquisite a gem, which has remained 
in virgin brightness to the verge of thirty. 
She is, I understand, perfectly independent, 


iriTEGEITV. 


Id^ 

and ‘very serious;’ but as heavenly love (in 
ladies) does not exclude earthly love, and 
Tom, though no saint, is yet no sinner, and 
a well disposed kind hearted young fellow, 
and moreover really fond of her, — altogether 
His a very good thing in my opinion.” 

“ And after calling on her, you visited 
Sancho?” 

’ “ No, we next went to Mr. Percy’s who 
turned out to be a friend of a gentleman, who 
is Colonel Mortimer’s friend (who by the 
way, is, as I said, a widower, and did look 
with an eye of no common interest on Emily.) 
Our visit was altogether one of extraordinary 
character, and will draw a smile even from 
those ‘ dove eyes.’ or I am much mistaken.” 


194 


IMTfECRlTY. 


CHAPTER XII. 

When Emily awoke, on the following 
morning, from the slumber occasioned by her 
soporific medicine, by slow degrees she be- 
gan to recollect the sorrows of the preceding 
day, and her conduct under them, and endea- 
voured to resolve, “ that she would submit 
to the affliction, as one permitted by Heaven 
for the exercise of her virtue but the very 
reasoning upon it brought it again before 
her mind in all the freshness of its cruelty ; 
and she felt that years might roll over her, 
and leave it still possessed of force to torture 
her. 

To make every possible inquiry after 
Tracy, — to write letters innumerable, — even 
to go herself a pilgrimage in search of him, 
appeared the only way in which her active 
troubled spirit could be appeased, and the 
first m ovement to which her wishes pointed, 
was that of searching out her cousin William 
immediately, inquiring th© time when he 
would return to America; his connections in 
the West India Islands, and the probability 
that either himself or her uncle would ac- 
company her thither. 

With these thoughts rushing through her 
unquiet brain, Emily sprang from her bed, 
and, to the alarm of her attendant, began to 
dress: she was not till then sensible that any 


JxNTiiGRlTV. 


195 


person was in the room, for the opiate had 
destroyed all minor recollections, and com- 
passion for the pale and wearied woman did 
much in composing her own perturbed state ; 
and though she persisted in dressing, she yet, 
with her accustomed consideration and hu- 
manity, requested the maid to go to bed, say- 
ing “ that she was now well, and desired to 
be left alone, as she was going to w rite.” The 
moment she was left to herself, she began to 
seek earnestly for the letters, w'hich her over- 
wdielming sorrow had hitherto prevented her 
from Reading, or efiectively listening to; not 
hnding them, she concluded that Lady Horn- 
by had in her kindness taken them away, 
and her impatience to possess them, to re- 
trace every line which bespoke affection, and 
opened the sluices of sorrow anew, took such 
possession of her mind, that she could not for- 
bear leaving her chamber to endeavour to re- 
gain them, and, for the first time in her life, 
sacrificing another’s comfort to her own. 

Yet it was by a very gentle tap at Lady 
Hornby’s door that she disturbed the sleep- 
ers, and announced her intreaty in a most 
deprecating tone. She was answered by a 
fair hand and a smiling face, that looked as 
if sorrow had never touched it, as it reached 
forth the fatal parcel which inevitably carried 
so much to the bosom of her who received it ; 
and whilst Emily was, in one sense, relieved 
from the idea of having been the cause of so 
much suffering to her the day before, she yet 


196 


INTEGRITY. 


felt with the more acuteness, that grief arising 
from the wickedness which had deprived her 
{most probably for ever) of a friend beyond 
all others, — a friend,* whom she, beyond all 
others, wanted ; for, young as she was, mis- 
fortune and death had robbed her on every 
side ; — she stood a lonely tree upon a barren 
heath, shaken by every blast, j^et green in her 
youth, fated to live and to suffer. 

Every letter had been devoured by eyes 
that yet overflowT'd as they read ; and again 
her busy mind w^as crossing the Atlantic, 
when Lady Hornby entered her room, and 
fixing her eyes on the untasted coffee, which 
had entered tw^o hours before, (Emily knew 
not how, nor when) exclaimed violently 
against the impropriety of thus giving way 
fo useless sorrow, and insisted that she should 
come into the breakfast-room, where Sir 
Joshua w^as very anxious to see her. 

“ I cannot, indeed, I cannot go there — 
“Yes, you can, Emily, and you must; — 
it is unw^orthy of you to give way to sorrow, 
which afflicts your friends; if you could see 
how the dear round face of my beloved is 
elongated on your account, I am sure you 
would exert yourself. — Depend upon it, no 
one shall intrude upon us, save the bride- 
groom elect. Mr. Thomas Hastings.'*’ 

“ Bridegroom ! Lady Hornby, 1 cannot bear 
a jest. — In pity, spare me.” '* 

“’Tis no jest; Tom is going to marry a 
pretty and rich lady, who accepts his fine 


INTEGRITY. 


197 


person, and honest, loving heart (by the way, 
sorrow has really improved him most mira- 
culously) in lieu of the goods of fortune; — 
she is mighty good, and mighty fond, I be- 
lieve, which is the new school in certain 
tenets but come along, I have more won- 
ders ; — my breakfast will boast such stars ! 
and produce such events !” 

Emily cast a melancholy, penetrating 
glance, into the face of her friend, which 
seemed to ask “ if she were the same woman 
who yesterday was sunk in sorrow but she 
felt she had no right to claim more than tem- 
porary sympathy, with one whose personal 
trouble was relieved, and whose general situ- 
ation w^as so singularly happy. 

Sir Joshua met her with the utmost warmth 
and frankness : it was evident that perfect 
confidence and good humour existed between 
him and his lady ; for he took Emily’s hand 
and pressed it between both his own, conduct- 
ed her to the sofa, and arranged the pillows 
and the footstool ; his wife all the while 
praising him as the best of nurses, and the 
most entertaining of all raconteurs. 

“ Now, Emily, take this chocolate ; eat this 
little little bit of roll, and then I will tell you 
what he told me last night, at the very time 
when 1 considered him almost as impertinent 
and unfeeling as you consider me at this 
very moment.” 

“ I do not consider you so. — I know you 
mean to be very kind, — but pardon me ; at 


198 


INTEGRITY. 


present, one thing alone engrosses me, and I 
must talk of that, — I must talk to Sir Joshua, 
— 1 have a thousand things lo say.’’ 

“ No, you must not ; aucontrarie, you must 
listen to Sir Joshua’s wife. Why, child, you 
are quite unreasonable ; — you said enough 
ye-terday to last any maid a week. What is 
more, you spoke like a Sihyl; every word 
was prophetic — every exclamation true — eve- 
ry eulogium fact, — a circumstance perhaps 
unparalleled in the life of a lover.” 

Emily answered bV a sigh, and a look of 
inquiry, mingled with reproach ; but the lady 
resumed : — 

“ Tom, yesterday, you must know, after 
introducing Sir Joshua to his future lady and 
her chaperon, proposed immediately accom- 
panying him to Colonel Mortimer’s, there to 
bargain for poor Sancho, which, I need not 
tell you, he sought as the second best thing 
life offered ; and which he desired the more 
anxiously, because his fair Mary Anne was 
im[)atient to see the interesting animal. As, 
however, Sir Joshua’s hurry on the subject 
was less pressing, he just dropped in, on his 
way, upon a very good little old batchelor, 
one Mr. Percy ; and on saying they were go- 
ing lo call on a Colonel ^Mortimer, — ‘ Oh !’ 
said he, ‘ 1 will go with you ; I want to see 
his relation.’ ‘ But if y^ou have business there, 
we may prove an interruption lo it.’ ‘ No, 
no ; I have no business with the young man 
7WW, further than to show him respect, which 


INTEGRITY. 


199 


I certainly feel for him profoundly. This 
Colonel Mortimer married his cousin, who 
died childless, from which circumstance he 
will become heir to her father; yet his love 
for him is equal to my respect — no little 

proof that, of worth in both parties Why, 

let me see, — didn^t you know a merchant of 
the name of Tracy, who died ?” 

“ Tracy 1’’ cried Emily, starting up, and 
sinking down again as pale as marble. 

“ Tracy, who died,’’ continued Lady 
Hornby, and Emily gave a silent sign of at- 
tention. — “‘No, I believe you were at school. 
Well, sir, this Tracy, as honest a fellow as 
ever drew breath, was ruined by the war, 
made a bankrupt, and left to shift as he 
could. Some years after he became co heir 
to an estate in the West Indies, but died 
'ere he took possession, leaving an only son, 
I theji scarcely twelve years of age : this is the 
i young fellow I speak of, my nonpareil, bight 
Frederic Tracy.’ ’’ 

Emily clasped her hands for a moment in 
grateful adoration, then flung them around 
; Lady Hornby, and wept long and freely ; 
and, despite of her real happiness and affected 
nonchalance^ her tears dropt also. 

“ How strange it is,” said Sir Jos'hua, 
“ that at this part of my friend’s narrative, I 
should interrupt him by a question Emily 
does not ask ! such is the confidence — such 
the delicacy of woman ! Go on, my dear, if 
you can; if not, I will do it.” 


200 


INTEGRITY. 


“No; I will play old Percy myself, brown 
Bob, and all,’’ cried she, recovering her 
wonted naivete. “ ‘ Well, sir, what does this 
young fellow do, in his twentieth year, but 
go over to his estates, take cognisance of all 
things, and with equal industry and humanity 
set himself to make the most of his property, 
for the express purpose of paying his deceased 
parent’s debts: but he did not do things slap- 
dash, in a mere fit of enthusiasm ; for with 
him money had its full value, and for some 
time he divided every sum he took, appro- 
priating two thirds to this purpose, and one 
to forming future provision for a farfiily ; but 
on this point, as I just now told you, his hopes 
were blasted ; after which, reckless of fortune 
save as it fulfilled the noble purpose to which 
it was devoted, all went to that stock, and he 
remitted, by every means, payment of the 
full debt, and where the creditors chose it, 
interest to the time. I was amongst the 
number, and refused mine, of course, which 
circumstance led to our personal acquaintance- 
During this time he was so dejected, and in 
such poor health, that his friends trembled 
for his life, and a voyage to England was 
alike recommended to his cousin and himself. 
She took it, but uselessly : he persisted in re- 
fusing; but about four months since, learning 
that his betrothed had fallen into great dis- 
tress from the insolvency of her guardian, he 
set out immediately for England, leaving the 
little he had left himself to be collected by his 


INTEGRITY. 


201 


uncle, who is about coming to settle in his 
own country ; and so Sir Joshua, here he isj 
seeking in vain for this lost girl, whom he 
will probably, ioo probably, find in a situation 
to which death would be preferable ;~beauty 
and poverty are ever in danger.”^ 

Lady Hornby ceased to speak ; in fact, 
the heart of this lively woman was engaged 
in thanking Heaven for the protection the 
lovely orphan had experienced ; that of Emily 
was too full of deep, unutterable thankfulness, 
to speak for many minutes. At last she said, 
turning to Sir Joshua, — 

“ But did you really see Frederic Tracy ?” 

“ I did, my dear girl ; — I was with him a 
whole hour. I should have brought him 
home with me, if I had not believed you to 
be at Richmond : — besides, he was not in a 
situation to bring out, nor did I promise that 
he should see you till we got to Richmond. 
In fact, I scarcely know what I said, but I 
believe it was pretty satisfactory. In short, 
you are a very worthy, but a very poor 
couple ; and I think it would be belter for 
you not to meet at all. I am a great enemy 
to imprudent marriages ; I am indeed ; so 
don’t look so saucily.” 

“ Imprudent !” cried Lady Hornby, why 
poor Tom declares he will share his fortune 
with Emily, and it now consists of almost 
three hundred and twenty pounds, in earnest 
of which he hath given me one.” 

S 


•l^'TEGRITiT. 


202 - 

Dear cousin Tom I how I rejoice in his 
good fortune!” 

“ I dare saj you do, my dear; — but go to 
your own room; be careful of the bandage on 
your arm, and remember the carriage will be 
here within an hour, which will take you to 
Richmond, and ” 

How that hour was spent by a mind in- 
formed like Emily’s, we need not say; for 
though pale and feeble from the extraordinary 
events of these memorable days, she wore a 
countenance of such serene happiness as to 
render her truly anxious friends easy, and 
save them the trouble of inventing somewhat 
to tranquilize the extraordinary excitement 
of her mind. The drive was a restorative of 
the happiest description, though it was passj 
ed nearly in silence; for the mild glistening 
eyes of Emily, as she inwardly revie\yed the 
change which had taken place in her feelings 
since she passed the same objects, showed, 
that she was still ascending in spirit, and 
pouring out her grateful soul on high. 

“ I hope,” said Lady Hornby, as she alight- 
ed, “ not a single creature will come near us 
to-day; we all require rest and composure.” 

‘‘ There has beena strange gentleman here 
five times,” said her own maid, who was 
waiting; but he left no card, and said he 
would come again.” 

“ Indeed! what was he like, Smithson?” 

Oh! my lady, he was a very grand look^ 
ing person to my mind, very thin, and 


pale to be sure; but then he walked like a 
Spaniard, and had such fine black eyes,— I 
never saw such eyes! — and then for teeth! 
I may say, that, barring your own, my lady, 
—but bless my life, he’s nere again I” 

Emily heard this, and sunk back insensi- 
ble, as "sir Joshua thought, on the seat of the 
carriage, but he was mistaken; for Emily 
heard a voice near her, which in its well re- 
membered accents, soothed and revived her 
heart: — and when at last she dared to look 
in his face, and believe that all was not a 
dream, she perceived those dark mild eyes, 
whose colour and expression had rested on 
her memory more strongly than any other 
lineament, fixed upon her with an expression 
of such joy and tenderness, such a renewal 
of early feelings and pleasures, she almost 
felt as if her mother must be standing near 
them. Another glance showed a great change : 
his face was marked and manly; the traces 
of care and sorrow were there in despite of 
the sunshine of present joy; yet on the whole 
his person was strikingly improved, and sin- 
gularly graceful. 

The heart alone can imagine this meeting, 
— can conceive its sparkling delight, follow- 
ed by deep-seated joy, and the serenity of 
confidence and peace. 

There was, however, so much of sorrow to 
retrace, and so much of anxiety for the future, 
as still to dash the cup of joy with a portion 
of anxiety, which, on Frederic’s part, was 


204 


INTEGRITY. 


much more acute then Emily's ; for she had 
been in such extreme indigence, that she 
thought all lesser degrees of misery compa- 
ratively light; but Frederic, seeing the ele- 
gance which surrounded her, and which she 
graced, felt that he could not reduce her to 
the bare competence of a scanty provision, — 
every hour, however, served to prove that 
their happiness was bound up in each other ; 
— the taste, the pursuits, as well as the sen- 
sibilities, and the principles of early life, were 
unfolded with every interview, and they had 
the rare felicity of being at once delighted 
with the acquisitions and novelty of each 
others attainments, and with the sense of re- 
posing on the known faith and tried attach- 
ment of an ancient and inviolable friendship ; 

• — and although it appeared, that nature had 
given somewhat more constancy, in a case of 
hopeless attachment, to the stronger sex, Fre- 
deric saw only in the ingenuous confession of 
his Emily, a new point of conduct to approve, 
a new sorrow to pity, and a new subject of 
gratitude to Heaven in preserving her for 
him. 

A very few days sufficed to prove to our 
young couple their means of being happy with 
humble comforts ; for on William Hastings 
presenting himself, he was the bearer of one- 
half of the property Emily had lost, together 
with a long letter from her uncle, pointing out 
the means by which he hoped, in the course 
of time, to repay the remainder As he 


i-V.TE'GRVri. ^'05 

could have no idea that by a partial payment 
they had been actually bereft of subsistence, 
and knew the activity of his eldest son, whilst 
he lamented their altered situation, he yet 
had formed no conception of the distress of 
his family, and he warmly expressed his thanks 
to Emily, for the part she was acting when 
he heard from his wife, as a wise and just 
guardian to his brother’s children. He spoke 
highly of William’s wife, whose care had re- 
stored his health, which was much affected by 
his late trials. He concluded by expressing 
jin earnest desire of being restored to his wife 
ai;id. family, speaking of poor Tom, as of a 
subject that lay heavy at his heart. 

Alas I how much had he to learn and to 
lament! ' 

From this time Emily’s mind was perfectly 
at ease: it had been the dread of her heart, 
that Mr. Percy, the good Baronet, and Colo- 
nel Mortimer, would in their kindness ad- 
vance Frederic money to begin business on 
some extensive plan; whereby he might be 
involved eventually in the troubles of which 
she had seen so much; or escaping these, 
would be inevitably drawn from those quiet 
enjoyments, which are best attainted in rural 
life. She knew his taste for literary pursuits, 
and the elegant occupations which belong to 
intellectual cultivation; and looking back to 
their first days as their best, she naturally 
sought to renew these; and justly felt that 
young as they were, they had yet both suffered 


206 


INTEGHITi", 


SO much as to have a right to the enjoyment 
of rest from the turmoil, and leisure for the 
duties of life. Frederic thought and wished 
precisely with her, and the generosity of his 
own heart taught him to receive from her lit- 
tle store what they alike needed without dif- 
ficulty ; but yet, as his uncle was daily ex- 
pected, he looked impatiently to the time 
which would enable him to give as freely as 
he could receive. 

Whilst these important discussions took 
place in the lanes of Petersham, or the high 
woodlands of the Park, those lonely solitudes, 
which seem spread by the hand of nature, 
for the rambles of lovers and poets. Lady 
Hornby was exerting all her well known 
powers to provide a fete worthy of her own 
celebrity ; and as there were some hours when 
she could command the fine talents, and the 
unwearied activity of Emily, it was no won- 
der that between them the entertainment was 
alike charming and unique. 

As Emily could not be made a queen of 
diamonds, her ladyship was satisfied with 
making her elegantly simple in her dress, 
and so much had the last eight days height- 
ened her beauty, that even Frederic gazed 
upon her with new admiration, as if he then 
first discovered that her personal attractions 
helped to rivet the heart so long in her pos-* 
session, that he had forgot how it came there. 
All was brilliance, gaiety, and pleasure; the 
dance and the song succeeded each other ^ 


INTEGRITY. 


2a7 


the odour of the flowers and trees, the fresh 
breeze from the river tempering the heat, the 
soft shadows that seemed to play with the 
flickering light upon the green carpet of na- 
ture, the crowds of young gay females splen- 
didly attired, gave to the whole scene an air 
of enchanting, yet refined hilarity, which 
gladdened eveiy heart, and shone in every 
eye ; but, most of all, in that of her who was 
the queen of the scene, the courteous and 
hospitable mistress of the revels. 

“ I never saw Lady Hornby look so well 
as she does to day,’^ observed Mr. Tracy to 
Sir Joshua. 

“ Nor I,’* returned the Baronet, “ which is 
much more to say ; she does look charmingly 
just now, as she presents her childern to our 

invaluable neighbour, the Duchess of : 

look, with what; a smile she receives them ; 
the smile of an angel, for it is independent 
of earthly attraction.’^ 

“ I remember, Macneil called her so, long 
since ; it struck me when I was a boy, and I 
rejoice that I have seen her. I can enter into 
the feeling which at this moment irradiates 
Lady Hornby’s features.’’ 

“ Yet you will enter into it more to-mor- 
row,” said Sir Joshua, as with a quick step he 
joined his lady, and attended her grace to her 
carriage. 

As the sun went down (but not till then) 
did the gay guests depart ; and so complete- 
ly was their elegant hostess worn out by the 




Zii'a 

fatigues of the day, that when she had made 
her last curtsey, she retired also, leaving to 
Emily the task of entertaining the two gen- 
tlemen, and giving thus a lesson on the sub- 
ject which might be of future use to one en- 
tering upon a new situation in life. 

Emily rose early the next morning, and 
took a solitary ramble over tho^e walks which 
now exhibited the melancholy litter, which 
followed in consequence of their past gaiety, 
and served to heighten the regret she felt at . 
leaving a place which had witnessed the most 
pleasurable moments of her existence, and 
been at least unstained by those which she 
justly considered her severest sorrows. Whilst 
she thus moralized. Colonel Mortimer joined 
her, and after enquiring for Frederic, told her 
that his father-in -law, Mr. Tracy, had arriv- 
ed, and was then in Richmond: he had just 
left him at the Talbot, conceiving that after 
a day of so much fatigue, a stranger’s visit 
might be unseasonable. • 

“I hope,” said Emily ‘‘ Frederic is, gphe 
down to him, as I have not seen him this 
morning.” 

‘‘ I hope so, too, for the old man is impa- 
tient to see him; he has now only him oh 
whom to lean. You will pardon me, Miss 
Shelburne, if I seek to interest you for the 
father of a sweet and excellant young woman, 
(whom, in fact, you much resemble) and for 
the uncle of your affianced-; — — ” 

As Colonel Mortimer sJ)oke, he put his 


INTEGRITY. 


209 


handkerchief to his eyes, ^nd seemed too 
much affected to proceed : but there was no 
need to plead wifh Emily for indulgence and 
pity for the peculiarities, or infirmities, of an 
aged and bereaved man : but ere she had time 
to say what she felt on the subject, she was 
summoned to breakfast ; and leaving the 
Colonel to recover, she entered the house, 
and was hastily presented in all her best 
looks, and under the glow of her best feel- 
ings, to the elder Mr. Tracy* 

On recovering from this surprise, Emily 
took her seat at the breakfast table, and per- 
ceived with surprise, notunraixed with pain, 
that Lady Hornby was drest completely in 
mourning — not new, but evidently used for 
its general purposes, as if hastily required. 

“ 1 am sorry,” said she, in a low voice, ‘‘ to 
see your Ladyship in mourning.” 

“It is not mourning; it is only black — the 
symbol of sincere respect, but by no means of 
sorrow.” 

‘‘ A very good distinction, my Lady,” said 
the stranger, who was even now a man whose 
strongly marked countenance indicated acute 
observation and deep reflection — the power 
to struggle against sorrow, as well as sen- 
sibility to feel it. 

I heard, yesterday,” resumed Lady Horn- 
by, “ of the death of a gentleman who was 
one of my country neighbours ; a quiet, inof- 
fensive, well-meaning man. whose delicate 
constitution rendered him ever valetudma-. 


21^ 


IXTEGHITY. 


vian, and of late years much a saftercr, so that 
I consider his release a blessing. He has left 
me a beautiful cabinet, of which he knew I 
was fond, and a legacy of five hundred pounds, 
as a reward for some slight services.” 

“ I am very glad of it; it proves that he had 
a grateful heart: and if he had no relations, 
I wish he had made it more,” said Mr. Tracy, 

“ But he had a relation whom he never saw, 
but to whom, (except a, few other legacies to 
his old servants,) he has left his estate and 
considerable accumulations. He possessed 
it, I have understood, from the forbearance of 
her father, who was the natural heir, and 
might have been the possessor; and so much 
did this circumstance affect his mind, that 
he forbore to marry all his life, though a man 
who really wanted domestic comfort, from a 
sense of duty; a belief that he ought in con- 
science to restore it to his brother’s daughter 
— Emily, I speak of your uncle — ” 

‘‘And I,” said Sir Joshua rising, “claim 
my right, as nearest neighbour, to salute the 
Lady of Stanton -dale manor.” 

The brotherly kiss of the baronet, the ex- 
clamation of surprise from the stranger, and 
the colonel, who had just entered, for a mo- 
ment overwhelmed Emily with confusion; 
but in the next, turning her blushing face to 
Frederic, she put both her hands into his, and 
exclaimed,* — 

“ Now! now! Frederic, we shall live in 
the country.” Then suddenly recollecting 
how many eyes w'ere upon her. she sought ta 


INTEGRITY. 


m 

withdraw her hands and fly tVoni sight; but 
she only reached the outstretched arms of 
Lady Hornby, who was about to joke with 
her, when Mr. Tracy, taking the arm of Col- 
onel Mortimer, yet averting his eyes from his 
lace, thus addressed her in a faultering voice. 

“ Young lady; — Emily — my child — I thank 
you; you have honoured my nephew by this 
innocent and generous declaration, and your- 
self no less: and as you have no father of 
your own, I pray you to adcept of me for one, 
in taking care of this property for you and 
yours: for I will venture, before this good 
company, to assure you that Frederic Tracy 
has abundance of his own.” 

Emily turned with grateful, glistening eyes 
to the speaker, and, as well as she was able, 
thanked him for his ofter; but, as both he and 
Colonel Mortimer looked a little moved by a 
scene which probably recalled painful cir- 
cumstances to their memory, Lady Hornby 
sought to relieve them by one of her sprightly 
sallies; and calling Frederic Tracy, she de- 
sired he would take Emily’s hand repeat four 
lines of play poetry, and make his best bow- 
adding, — ' 

It is certain Emily, your history is very 
like a modern conjedy, dull in the beginning, 
sorrowful in progress, and crammed full of 
fine incidents in the last scene, which come 
in like a cluster of strawberries to sweeten 
sour critics.” 

‘‘ Say, rather, my dear, it is like a modern 
story,” observed Sir Joshua; ‘^for thougii 


212 1JNTE6R1TY. 

you may juslly make Emily a heroine, 1 fear 
she has few talents for an actress. If we 
could trace the misfortunes, situations, and 
feelings of those around us, I believe we 
should find circumstances more extraordinary 
than fiction can invent, and sorrow more 
acute than she can pourtray ; and, in many 
instances, I trust, we should see the virtuous 
thus meet the reward of their well-doing, in 
a — ’’ 

“ Dont say marriage : Emily can’t be mar^ 
fied yet — she must go down to Stanton-dale 
— she must w^car mourning a month — she 
must resign her trust in a regular way ; I am 
all regularity you know^ — nobody can esteem 
integrity so much as / do, because—” 

“ Dear Lady Hornby,” said Emily, hastily, 

be assured that I am well aw^are I have ma- 
ny duties to perform, some of which are so 
pieasureable, that 1 must be permitted to en- 
joy them even before I go to Stanton-dale. 
1 have friends in Yorkshire whom I must see 
and thank ; friends in Westminister whom I 
must reward. — I must raise a memorial to 
the saint I revere ; and a monument to him 
whom I gratefully thank. — Oh ! I have much 
to do, but Frederic will assist me: he knows 
the full value of performing a promise made 
to one’s own heart, and is well aware that the 
pleasure of being- grateful is as dear ti) the 
heart as the sense of being just. 


THE ENlJU 








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